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PREFACE. 


Many of the scenes presented in this volume arc 
such as show the mother's influence with her children ; 
a few include the marriage relation ; and a few give 
other domestic pictures. In all will be found, we trust, 
motives for self-denial and right action in the various 
conditions of social life. Home is the centre of good 
as well as of bad influence. How much, then, depends, 
on those to whom have been committed the sacred trust 
of giving to the home-circle its true power over the 
heart ! 

This volume makes the fifth in “Arthur's Library 
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' 









CONTENTS. 


Taking Comfort 

Children — A Family Scene, 

Losing One’s Temper 

Trouble with Servants 

Haven’t the Change 

Old Maids’ Children..^. 

The Mother and Boy 

The Christmas Party 

Is She a Lady? 

Going into Mourning 

If that were my Child 

I Will I 

A Mother’s Influence 

The Power of Patience 


PAca 

7 

35 

65 

61 

67 

72 

92 

103 

119 

128 

151 

171 

184 

193 


An Old Man’s Recollections, 


208 



HOME SCENES. 


TAKING COMFORT. 


Really, this is comfortable!’’ said I, glancing 
around the handsomely furnished parlour of my 
young friend Rrainard, who had, a few weeks before, 
ventured upon matrimony, and was now making his 
first experiments in housekeeping. 

“ Yes, it is comfortable,” replied my friend. 

The fact is, I go in for comforts.” 

I’m afraid George is a little extravagant,” said 
the smiling bride, as she leaned towards her husband 
and looked tenderly into his face. 

‘^No, not extravagant, Anna,” he returned; ^^all 
I want is to have things comfortable. Comfort I 
look upon as one of the necessaries of life, to which 
all are entitled. Don’t you ?” 

I was looking at a handsome new rose-wood piano 
when this question was addressed to me, and 
thinking about its probable cost. 

^^We should all make the best of what we 
have,” I answered, a little evasively, “ and seek to 


8 


TAKING COMFORT. 


be as comfortable as possible under all circum- 
stances.’’ 

Exactly. That’s my doctrine/’ said Brainard. 

I’m not rich, and therefore don’t expect to live in 
a palace, and have every thing around me glittering 
with silver and gold ; but, out of the little I possess, 
I shall endeavour to obtain the largest available 
dividend of comfort. Ain’t I right ?” 

Perhaps so.” 

^‘You speak coldly,” said my friend. Don’t 
you agree with me ? Should not every man try to 
be as comfortable as his means will permit ?” 

Yes, certainly.” 

^‘Of course he should. Some men set a value 
upon money above every thing else, and sacrifice all 
comfort to its accumulation; but I don’t belong to 
that class. Money is a good gift, because it is the 
means of procuring natural blessings. I receive it 
thankfully, and use it wisely. You see how I am 
beginning life.” 

^ado.” 

Well, what do you think of it ?” 

By this time my observation of things had become 
more particular, and I saw many evidences of ex- 
penditures that indicated a lavish spirit. 

What rent do you pay ?” I asked. 

Three hundred.” 

I shook my head. 

Too much ?” said Brainard. 


TAKING COMFORT. 


9 


think so/^ 

Perhaps it is a little high. But you can’t got a 
genteel, comfortable house, in a good neighbourhood, 
for any thing less.” 

As it was my first visit to the young couple, who 
were but a few weeks past their honey-moon, I did 
not feel like questioning the propriety of my friend’s 
conduct to the serious extent he was about involving 
himself ; and so evaded replying to this excuse for 
taking at least a hundred dollars more rent upon 
himself than he was justified in doing by his circum- 
stances, he being simply a clerk, with a salary of 
one thousand dollars. 

Kents are high,” was my apparently indifferent 
answer. 

‘‘Too high,” said he. “A man who wants a 
pleasant house has to pay for it. This is my 
experience.” 

The subject of conversation changed ; I passed an 
agreeable evening; at the close of which 1 left my 
friend and his lovely young bride in their comfort- 
able home. 

What I had seen and heard during the few hours 
spent w'ith Brainard made me fear that he was 
about committing a too common error. His ideas 
of comfort were not in keeping with his circum» 
stances. Some days subsequently I saw my friend 
and his wife riding out in a handsome vehicle, drawn 
by a gay horse. 


10 


TAKING COMFORT. 


Taking their comfort/^ said I, as I paused ^nd 
looked upon the happy young couple. 

Not long after, I saw them dashing off again to 
enjoy an afternoon’s ride. Next, I met them at a 
fashionable concert. 

Have you been to the opera yet asked Brain- 
ard, leaning forward to the seat that I occupied just 
in front of him. 

No,” was my answer. 

Then there is a treat in store for you. We go 
twice, and sometimes oftener, every week. Truffi, 
Benedetti, Rosi — oh ! they are enchanting.” 

Rather expensive,” said I. 

“It does cost something,” and Brainard shrug- 
ged his shoulders. “ But I think it’s money well 
spent. You know that I go in for the comforts of 
life.” 

And he leaned back, while I thought I perceived 
a slight shadow flit across his face. A singer came 
forward at the moment, and no more was said. 

“It is possible,” thought I, “in seeking after 
comfort, to get into the wrong road. I am afraid my 
young friends are about committing this error.” 

I not only suggested as much to Brainard soon 
afterwards, but actually presented a serious remon- 
strance against the course of life he had adopted. 
But he only smiled at the fears I expressed, and 
said he understood perfectly the nature of the 
ground he was treading. Thus it is with most 


TAKING COMFORT. 


11 


young persons. Be their views true or false, they 
act upon them, in spite of all counsel from the more 
experienced, and in the end reap their harvest o-f 
trouble or pleasure, as the case may be. Pride, 
which stimulates the desire to make a certain ap- 
pearance in the world, is generally more at fault 
than a wish to secure the comforts of which my 
friend talked so much. 

I had another acquaintance, by the name of Tyler, 
who was married about the same time with Brain- 
ard. His tastes were as well cultivated as those 
of the former, and his income was as large ; yet, in 
beginning the world, he had shown more prudence 
and a wise forecast. I found him in a small, neat 
house, at a rent of one hundred and seventy dollars. 
His furniture was not costly, but in good taste and 
keeping with the house and his circumstances. As 
for real comfort, as far as I could see, the prepon- 
derance was rather in his favour. 

^^This is really comfortable,^^ said I, glancing 
around the room in which he received me on the 
occasion of my first visit. 

We think so,’^ replied my friend, smiling. 

Nothing very elegant, but as good as we can alfford, 
and with that we have made up our minds to be 
content.’^ 

If all the world were as wise, all the world 
would be happier,’' I remarked. 

Perhaps so,” relumed Tyler. Brainard tried 


12 


TAKING COMFORT. 


10 get me into a house like the one he occupies; but 
I thought it more prudent to cut my garment accord- 
ing to my cloth. The larger your house, the more 
costly your furniture and the higher your regular 
expenses. He talked about having things comfort- 
able, as he called it, and enjoying life as he went 
along; but it would be poor comfort for me to know 
that I was five or six hundred dollars in debt, and 
all the while living beyond my income.’^ 

In debt ? What do you mean by that said 
I. It isn’t possible that Brainard has gone in debt 
for any of his fine furniture?” 

It is very possible.” 

^^To the extent of five or six hundred dollars?” 

^^Yes. The rose-wood piano he bought for his 
Jyife cost four hundred dollars. It was purchased 
on six months’ credit.” 

Foolish young man !” said I. 

You may well say that. He thinks a great deal 
about the comforts of life; but he is going the wrong 
way to secure them, in my opinion. His parlour 
furniture, including the new piano, cost nearly one 
thousand dollars; mine cost three hundred; and 
Fm sure I would not exchange comforts with him. 
It isn’t what is around us so much as what is within 
us, that produces pleasure. A contented mind is 
said to be a continual feast. If, in seeking to have 
things comfortable, we create causes of disquietude, 
wc defeat our own ends.” 


TAKING COMFORT. 


13 


I 'Wish our friend Brainard could see things in 
the same light/^ said I. 

‘^Nothing but painful experience will open his 
eyes” remarked Tyler. 

And he was correct in this. Brainard continued 
to take his comfort for a few months, although there 
was a gradual sinking in the thermometer .of his 
feelings as the time approached when the notes given 
for a part of his furniture would fall due. The 
amount of these notes was six hundred dollars, but 
he had not saved fifty towards meeting the payments. 
The whole of his income had been used in taking 
his comfort. 

“ Why, Brainard I” said I, in a tone of surprise, 
on meeting him one day, nearly six months after 
his marriage. What has happened 

Happened ? Nothing. Why do you ask ?” re- 
plied the young man. 

You look troubled.^^ 

Do I V’ He made an effort to smile. 

Yes, you certainly do. What has gone wrong 
with you 

Oh, nothing.^' And he tried to assume an air 
of indifference; but, seeing me look incredulous, he 
added — 

Nothing particularly wrong. Fm only a little 
worried about money matters. The fact is, Fve 
got two or three notes to pay next week.^^ 

You have?^' 
v.— 2 


14 


TAKING COMFORT. 


i’^es; and what is more, I haven’t the means to 
lift them.” 

That is trouble,” said I, shaking my head. 

“It’s trouble for me. Oh, dear! I wish my in- 
come were larger. A thousand dollars a year is too 
little.” 

“ Two persons ought to live on that sum very 
comfortably,” I remarked. 

“We can’t, then; and I’m sure we are not extra- 
vagant. Ah, me!” 

“ I spent the evening with our friend Tyler last 
week,” said I. “ His salary is the same as yours, 
and he told me that he found it not only sufficient 
for all his wants, but that he could lay by a couple 
of hundred dollars yearly.” 

“ I couldn’t live as he does,” said Brainard, a 
little impatiently. 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Bo you think I would be cooped up in such a 
pigeon-box of a place?” 

“ The house he lives in has six rooms, and he 
has but three in family — your own number, I pre- 
sume” — 

“ I have four,” said Brainard, interrupting me. 

“ Four?” 

“Yes. We have a cook and chambermaid.” 

“ Oh ! Mrs. Tyler has but one domestic.” 

“ My wife wasn’t brought up to be a household 
drudge,” said Brainard, contemptuously. 


TAKING COMFORT. 


15 


Your house has ten rooms in it, 1 believe 
said I, avoiding a reply to bis last remark. 

It has.” 

‘^But why should you pay rent for ten rooms, 
when you have use for only, five or six ? Is not 
that a waste of money that might be applied to a 
better purpose 

‘‘ Oh, I like a large house,” said my friend, toss- 
ing his head, and putting on an air of dignity and 
consequence. A hundred dollars difference in 
rent is a small matter compared with the increase 
of comfort it brings.” 

But the expense doesn’t stop with the additional 
rent,” said I. 

Why not ?” 

^‘The larger the house, the more expensive the 
furniture. It cost you a thousand dollars to fit up 
your handsome parlour?” said I. 

“ Yes, I presume it did.” 

‘‘ For what amount did you give your notes ?” 

For six hundred dollars.” 

On account of furniture ?” 

Y-es.” 

Tyler furnished his parlour for three hundred.” 

There was another gesture of impatience on the 
part of my young friend, as he said — 

And such furnishing !” 

“ Every thing looks neat and comfortable,” I re- 
plied. 


16 


TAKING COMFORT. 


may do for them, but it wouldn’t suit us.’’ 

Whatever is accordant with our means should 
be made to suit us,” said I, seriously. You are 
no better olF than Tyler.” 

“ Do you think I could content myself in such a 
place ?” he replied. 

“ Contentment is only found in the external cir- 
cumstances that correspond to a man’s pecuniary 
ability,” was my answer to this. “ Which, think 
you, is best contented? Tyler, in a small house, 
neatly furnished, and with a hundred dollars in his 
pocket ; or you, in your large house, with a debt of 
six hundred dollars hanging over you ?” 

There was an instant change in my friend’s coun- 
tenance. The question seemed to startle him. He 
sighed, involuntarily. 

But all this won’t lift my notes,” said he, after 
the silence of a few minutes. Good morning !” 

Poor fellow I I felt sorry for him. He had been 
buying comfort at rather too large a price. 

The more Brainard cast about in his mind for the 
means of lifting his notes, the more troubled did he 
become. 

might borrow,” said he to himself; “ but how 
am I to pay back the sum ?” 

To borrow, however, was better than to let his 
notes be dishonoured. So Brainard, as the time of 
payment drew nearer and nearer, made an effort to 
get from his friends the amount of money needed. 


TAKING COMFORT. 


17 


JBut the effort was not successful. Some looked 
surprised when he spoke of having notes to meet ; 
others ventured a little good advice on the subject 
of prudence in young men who are beginning the 
world, and hinted that he was living rather too 
fast. None were prepared to give him what he 
wanted. 

Troubled, mortified, and humbled, Brainard re- 
tired to his comfortable home on the evening before 
the day on which his note given for the piano was 
to fall due. Nearly his last effort to raise money 
had been made, and he saw nothing but discredit, 
and what he feared even worse than that before him. 
Involved as he was in debt, there was no safety 
from the sharp talons of the law. They might strike 
him at any moment, and involve all in ruin. 

Poor Brainard ! How little pleasure did the sight 
of his large and pleasant house give him as it came 
in view on his return home. It stood, rather as a 
monument of extravagance and folly, than the abode 
of sweet contentment. 

Three hundred dollars rent I” he murmured. 

Too much for me to pay.^^ And sighed deeply. 

He entered his beautiful parlour, and gazed around 
upon the elegant furniture which he had provided 
as a means of comfort. All had lost its power to 
communicate pleasure. There stood the costly 
piano, once coveted and afterwards admired. But 
it possessed no charm to lay the troubled spirit 


18 


TAKING COMFORT. 


within him. He had bought it as a marriage pre- 
sent for his wife, who had little taste for music, and 
preferred reading or sewing to the blandishment of 
sweet sounds. And for this toy — it was little more 
in his family — a debt of four hundred dollars had 
been created. Had it brought him an equivalent in 
comfort ? Far, very far from it. 

As Brainard stood in his elegant parlour, with 
troubled heart and troubled face, his wife came in 
with a light step. 

G-eorge I” she exclaimed on seeing him, her 
countenance falling and her voice expressing anxious 
concern. What is the matter ? Are you sick 

Oh, no !’’ he replied, aifecting a lightness of 
tone. 

But something is the matter, George,” said the 
young wife, as she laid her hand upon him and 
looked earnestly into his face. Something trou- 
bles you.” 

‘^Nothing of any consequence. A mere trifle,” 
returned Brainard, evasively. 

A mere trifle would not cloud your brow as it 
was clouded a moment since, Oeorge.” 

Trifles sometimes affect us more seriously than 
graver matters.” As Brainard said this, the sha- 
dows again deepened on his face. 

If you have any troubles, dear, let me share 
them, and they will be lighter.” Anna spoke with 
much tenderness. 


TAKING COMFORT. 


19 


1 hardly think your sharing my present trouble 
will lighten \t” said Bniinard, forcing a smile, 
‘‘ unless, in so doing, you can put some four hundred 
dollars into my empty pockets.’^ 

Anna withdrew a pace from her husband, and 
looked at him doubtingly. 

“Do you speak in earnest?^’ said she. 

“In very truth I do. To-morrow I have four 
hundred dollars to pay ; but where the money is to 
come from, is more than I can tell.^’ 

“ How in the world has that happened V’ inquired 
Mrs. Brainard. 

Involuntarily the eyes of her husband wandered 
towards the piano. She saw their direction. Her 
own eyes fell to the floor, and she stood silent for 
some moments — silent, but hurriedly thoughtful. 
Then looking up, she said, in a hesitating voice — 

“ We can do without that.'’ And she pointed 
towards the piano. 

“ Without what r"’ asked Brainard, quickly. 

“ The piano. It cost four hundred dollars. Sell it.” 

“ Never I” 

“Why not?” 

“Don’t mention it, Anna. Sell your piano! It 
shall never be done.” 

“But, George” — 

“ It’s no use to talk of that, Anna ; I will uot 
listen to it.” 

And so the wife was silenced. 


20 


TAKING COMFORT. 


Little comfort had the young couple that evening 
in their finely furnished house. Brainard was silent 
and thoughtful, while Anna felt the pressure of a 
heavy weight upon her feelings. 

How different was it in the smaller and more 
plainly attired dwelling of Tyler ! There was comfort, 
and there were peace and contentment, her smiling 
handmaids. 

On the next morning, Brainard found it impossi- 
ble to conceal from his wife the great anxiety he 
felt. She said very little to him, for his trouble 
was of a kind for which she could suggest no reme- 
dy. After he parted with her at the door, she re- 
turned and sat down in one of the parlours to think. 
The piano was before her, and back to that her 
thoughts at length came. It was not only a beauti- 
ful instrument, but one of great excellence. Often 
had it been admired by her friends, and particularly 
by a lady who had several times expressed a wish to 
own one exactly like it in every respect. 

“ I wish you would let me have that piano,” the 
lady had said to her not a week before ; and said it 
as much in earnest as in jest. 

I wonder if she really would buy it ?” mused 
Mrs. Brainard. ‘‘ I don’t want so fine an instru- 
ment. My old piano is a very good one, and is 
useless at father’s. Oh ! if I could only get George 
the four hundred dollars he wants so badly !” 

And she struck her hands together as her thoughts 


TAKING COMFORT, 


21 


grew earnest on the subject. For more than an 
hour the mind of Mrs. Brainard gave itself up to 
this one idea. Then she dressed herself and went 
out. Without consulting any one, she called upon 
the lady to whom reference has been made. 

“ Mrs. Aiken, said she, coming at once to the 
point, ^^you have often remarked that you would 
like to own that piano of mine. Were you really in 
earnest 

In earnest ? Certainly I was.’^ Mrs. Aiken 
smiled, at the same time that a slight expression of 
surprise came into her face. It’s one of the finest 
instruments I ever touched.” 

‘^It’s for sale,” said Mrs. Brainard, in a firm, 
business-like way. “ So there is a chance for you 
to call it your own.” 

For sale ! Why do you say that, Anna ?” 

‘^It’s too costly an instrument for me to own. 
My old piano is a very good one — quite good enough 
for all my purposes.” 

^^But this is your husband’s wedding-gift, if I 
remember rightly ?” 

I know it is ; but the gift was too costly a one 
for a young man whose salary is only a thousand 
dollars a year.” 

Then he wishes to sell it.” 

No, indeed, not he !” 

“ And would you sell it without consulting him?^ 
paid Mrs. Aiken. 


22 


TAKING COMFORT. 


Such is my intention.” 

‘‘ He might be very much displeased.” 

“No matter; I would soon smooth his frowning 
brow. But, Mrs. Aiken, we won’t discuss that 
matter. The instrument is to be sold. Do you 
want it ?” 

“Ido.” 

“Very well. Are you prepared to buy it?” 

‘ Perhaps so. It cost four hundred dollars ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What is your price ?” 

“ The same.” 

“ Then you make no deduction ?” said Mrs. 
Aiken, smiling. 

“I wouldn’t like to do that. It’s as good as new. 
If I can sell it, I want to be able to put in my hus- 
band’s hands just what he paid for it.” 

“Oh, then you want the money for your hus- 
band ?” 

“ Certainly, I do. What use have I for four 
hundred dollars ?” 

“You’ve come just in time, Anna,” said Mrs. 
Aiken. “ I arranged with my husband to meet him 
this morning, at his store, to go and look at some 
pianos. But if yours is really for sale, we have no 
occasion to take any further trouble.” 

“It is for sale, Mrs. Aiken. Understand this.” 

“Very well. When do you want the money?” 

“This morning.” 


TAKING COMFORT. 


23 


don’t know about that. However, I will see 
Mr. Aiken immediately.” 

Shall I wait here for you ?” 

You may do so, or I will call at your house.” 

Do that, if you please.” 

^‘Very well. In an hour, at most, I will see 

fOU.” 

The two ladies then parted. 

When Mr. Brainard left his house that morning, 
he felt wretched. Where — how was he to get four 
hundred dollars ? To go to the party from whom 
he had bought the piano, and confess that he was 
not able to pay for it, had in it something so hu- 
miliating, that he could not bear the thought for a 
moment. But if the note was not paid, — what 
then? Might not the instrument be demanded? 
And how could he give it up now ? Or, worse, 
might it not be seized under execution ? 

Oh, that I had never bought it I” he at length 
exclaimed, mentally, in the bitterness of his feelings. 
And then he half chid himself for the extorted de- 
claration. 

Nearly the whole of the morning was spent in the 
vain attempt to borrow the needed sum. But there 
was no one to lend him four hundred dollars. At 
length, in his desperation, he forced himself to apply 
for a quarter’s advance of salary. 

“ No doubt,” said he, within himself, “ that the 
holder of the note will take two hundred and fifty 


24 


TAKING COMFORT. 


dollars on account, and give me time on the 
balance.’^ 

About the ways and means of living for the next 
three months, after absorbing his salary in advance, 
he did not pause to think. He was just in that 
state of mind in which he could say, with feeling. 
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'^ Un- 
happily, his effort to raise money by this expedient 
failed. His application was received coldly, and in 
a way to mortify him exceedingly. 

Half desperate, and half despairing, Brainard 
started for his home about one o’clock, his usual 
hour for dining. What was he to do ? He turned 
his thoughts to the right and to the left, groping 
about like a man in the dark. But no light broke in 
upon his mental vision. 

It will not do to meet Anna in this way,” said 
he, as he approached his own door. left her 
with a troubled countenance in the morning. Now 
I must force an assumed cheerfulness.” 

He entered, and was moving along the passage, 
when Anna came out through one of the parlour 
doors to meet him, and drawing her arm through 
his, said, in a lively tone, — 

“ Come, George, I want to play for you a favourite 
piece. I’ve been practising it for the last hour.” 

And she drew him into the parlour, and, taking 
her scat at the piano, commenced running her 
fingers over the keys. Brainard stood and listened 


TAKING COMFORT. 


25 


to the music until the piece was finished, trying, but 
in vain, to feel an interest in the performance. 

“ liv w do you like that said the wife, with ani- 
mation, lifting her sparkling eyes to the face of hei 
husband, which was serious, in spite of all he could 
do to give it a better expression. 

Beautifully performed,” replied Brainard. 

And do you really think so said Anna, as 
she arose, and leaning on his arm again, drew him 
into the next room. 

Certainly, I do.” 

“Didn’t you think the instrument a little out of 
tune ?” asked Anna. a 

“No; it struck me as being in better tune than 
when you played last evening.” 

“ It’s a fine instrument, certainly. I prize it very 
much.” 

Brainard sighed faintly. 

“ Oh ! How about your four hundred dollars ?” 
said Anna, as if the thought had just occurred to 
her. “Did you get the money ?” 

A change was apparent in the manner of Brainard, 

“No, Anna,” he replied, with assumed calmness. 

“ Do you want it badly ?” 

“Yes, dear. I have four hundred dollars due 
in the bank to-day, and every effort to obtain the 
sum has fiiiled.” 

“ What if I lend it to you ?” said the young wife, 
looking archly into his troubled fiice. 

V.— a 


26 


TAKING COMFORT. 


You I” he exclaimed, quickly. 

^‘Yes, me. Would you take it as a very great 
favour ?” 

^^The greatest you could do me just at this 
time I’’ 

‘‘ Very well ; here is the money.” 

And Anna drew a purse of gold from her pocket, 
and held it before his eyes. 

Anna ! What does this mean ?” 

And Brainard reached his hand to grasp the 
welcome treasure. But she drew it away quickly, 
saying, as she did so, — 

“ Certain conditions must go with the loan.” 

“ Name them,” was promptly answered by the 
husband, into whose face the sunshine had already 
come back. 

One is, that you are not to be angry with me 
For any thing that I have done to-day.” 

What have you done ?” 

And Brainard glanced around the room with an 
awakened suspicion. 

I want your promise first.” 

You have it.” 

“ But mind you, I am in earnest,” said Anna. 

“ So am I. Now make your confession.” 

“ I sold the piano.” 

‘^What?” 

There was an instant change in the expression of 
Brainard’s face. 


TAKING COMFORT. 



21 

“ \ our promise. Remember,” said Anna, in a 
warning voice. 

Sold the piano !” 

And he walked into the next room, Anna moving 
by his side. 

‘‘ Yes, I sold it to Mrs. Aiken for four hundred 
dollars. I had my old instrument brought over 
from father’s. This is as good a piano as I want, 
or you either, I should think, seeing that you per- 
ceived no difference in its tones from the one I parted 
with. Now, take this purse, and if you don’t call 
me the right sort of a wife, you are a very strange 
man — that is all I have to say.” 

Surprise kept Brainard silent for some moments. 
He looked at the piano, then at his wife, and then 
at the purse of gold, half doubting whether all were 
real, or only a pleasant dream. 

You are the right sort of a wife, Anna, and no 
mistake,” said he, at length, drawing his arm around 
her neck and kissing her. ‘‘ You have done what I 
had not the courage to do, and, in the act, saved me 
from a world of trouble. The truth is, I never 
should have bought that piano. A clerk, with a 
salary of only a thousand dollars, is not justified in 
expending four hundred dollars for a piano.” 

Nor in having so much costly furniture,” said 
Anna, glancing round the room. 

Brainard sighed, for the thought of two hundred 
dollars yet to pay flitted through his mind. 


28 


TAKING COMFORT. 


Nor in paying three hundred dollars for rent,” 
added Anna. 

Why do you say that ?” asked Brainard. 

Because it’s the truth. The fact is, George, 
I’m afraid we’re in the wrong road for comfort.” 

Perhaps we are,” was the young man’s con- 
strained admission. 

Then the quicker we get into the right way 
the better. Don’t you think so?” 

If we are wrong, we should try to get right,” 
said Brainard. 

“ It was wrong to buy that piano. This is your 
own admission.” 

» Well ?” 

We are right again in that respect.” 

Yes, thanks to my dear wife’s good resolution 
and prompt action.” 

“ It was wrong to take so costly a house,” said 
Anna. 

I couldn’t find a cheaper one that was genteel 
and comfortable.” 

I’m sure I wouldn’t ask any thing more genteel 
and comfortable than Mrs. Tyler’s house.” 

That pigeon-box !” 

Brainard spoke in a tone of contempt. 

Why, George, how you talk ! It’s a perfect 
gem of a house, well built and well finished in 
every part, and big enough for a family twice as 
large as ours. I think it fiir more comfortable than 


TAKING COMFORT. 


29 


this great barn of a place, and would a thousand 
times rather live in it. And then it is cheaper by 
a hundred and twenty dollars a year.^’ 

A hundred and twenty dollars! What a large 
sum of money. Ah, if he had a hundred and twen- 
ty dollars in addition to the four hundred received 
from Anna, how happy he would be ! These were 
the thoughts that were flitting through the mind of 
Brainard at the mention of the amount that could 
be saved by taking a smaller house. 

Well, Anna, perhaps you are right. Oh, 
dear I” 

^^Why do you sigh so heavily, George asked 
Mrs. Brainard, looking at her husband with some 
surprise. 

Because I can’t help it,” was frankly answered. 

You’ve got the money you needed ?” 

“ Not all.” 

W’^hy, George I Didn’t you say that you had 
only four hundred dollars to pay i”’ 

I didn’t say onli/.” 

“ How much more ?” 

^^ The fact is, Anna, I have two hundred dollars 
yet to meet.” 

“To-day?” 

Anna’s face became troubled. 

“ No, not until the day after to-morrow.” 

The young wife’s countenance lighted up again. 

“ Is that all ?” 


3 * 


30 


TAKING COMFORT. 


“ Yes, thank Heaven, that is all. But how the 
payment is to be made, is more than I can tell.” 

Dinner was now announced. 

I shall have to turn financier again,” said Anna, 
smiling, as she drew her arm within that of her hus* 
band, and led him away to the dining-room. 

Fm a little afraid of your financiering,” returned 
her husband, shaking his head. “ You might sell 
me next as a useless piece of furniture.” 

Now, George, that is too bad,” replied Anna, 
looking hurt. 

I only jested, dear,” said Brainard, repairing 
the little wrong done to her feelings with a kiss. 

Your past efforts at financiering were admirable, 
and I only hope your next attempt may be as suc- 
cessful.” 

Two days more passed, during which time neither 
Brainard nor his wife said any thing to each other 
about money, although the thoughts of both were busy 
for most of the time on that interesting subject. 

Silently sat Brainard at the breakfast-table on 
the morning of the day when his last note fell due. 
How was he to meet the payment ? Two hundred 
dollars! He had not so much as fifty dollars in 
his possession, and as to borrowing, that was a vain 
hope. Must he go to the holder of the note, and 
ask a renewal ? He shrunk from the thought, mur- 
muring to himself — “Any thing but that.” 

As for getting the required sum through Anna, 


TAKING COMFORT. 


3.1 


he did not permit himself to hope very strongly. 
She had looked thoughtful since their last interview 
on the subject, and at times, it seemed to him, trou- 
bled. It was plain that she had been disappointed 
in any efforts to get money that she might have 
made. 

That she, too, should be subject to mortifica- 
tion and painful humiliation I” said he, as his mind 
dwelt on the subject. “ It is too bad — too bad ! — 
Oh, to think that my folly should have had this 
reaction 

Anna looked sober as Brainard parted with her 
after breakfast, and he thought he saw tears in her 
eyes. As soon as he was gone she dressed herself, 
and taking from a handsome jewel-box the present 
of her husband, a gold watch and chain, a bracelet, 
diamond pin, and some other articles of the same 
kind, left the house. 

Two hours afterward, as Brainard sat at his desk 
trying to fix his mind upon the accounts before him, 
a note was handed in bearing his address. He broke 
the seal, and found that it enclosed one hundred and 
seventy dollars, with these few words from Anna: 

This is the best I can do for you, dear husband. 
Will it be enough 

God bless her came half audibly from the 
lips of Brainard, as he drew forth his pockety-book, 
in which were thirty dollars. Yes, it will be 
enough. 


32 


TAKING COMFORT. 


There is no comfort in owing, or in paying 
after this fashion, said the young man to himself, 
as he walked homeward at dinner-time, with his 
last note in his pocket. There will have to be a 
change.^^ 

And there was a change. When next I visited 
my young friend, I found him in a smaller house, 
looking as comfortable and happy as I could have 
wished to see him. We talked pleasantly about the 
errors of the past, and the trouble which had follow- 
ed as a natural result. 

There is one thing, said Brainard, during the 
conversation, glancing at his wife as he spoke, “ that 
I have not been able to make out.’' 

What is that ?" asked Mrs. Brainard, smiling. 

Where the last one hundred and seventy dollars 
you gave me came from." 

Have you missed nothing?" said she, archly. 

Nothing," was his reply. 

Been deprived of no comfort ?" 

So far from it, I have found a great many new 
ones." 

^‘And been saved the trouble of winding up and 
regulating that pretty eight-day clock for which you 
gave forty dollars." 

Brainard fairly started to his feet as he turned to 
the mantel, and, strange to say, missed, for the first 
time, the handsome timepiece referred to by his 
wife 


TAKING COMFORT. 


33 


“ Why, Anna, is it possible? Surely that basnet 
been gone for two months !” 

‘^Oh, yes, it has.” 

Well, that beats all.” 

And Brainard resumed his chair. 

You\e been just as comfortable,” said the ex- 
cellent young woman. 

But you didn’t get a hundred and seventy dol- 
lars for the timepiece ?” 

No. Have you lost no other comfort ? Think.” 

Brainard thought, but in vain. Anna glided from 
the room, and returned in a few moments with her 
jewel-box. 

Do you miss any thing ?” said she, as she raised 
the lid and placed the box in his hands. 

Your watch and chain !” 

Anna smiled. 

“You did not sell them?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Why, Anna ! Did you set no value on your 
husband’s gifts?” 

There was a slight rebuke in the tone of Brainard. 
Tears sprang to Anna’s eyes, as she answered — 

I valued them less than his happiness.” 

Brainard looked at her for a few moments with 
an expression of deep tenderness. Then turning 
to me, he said, in a voice that was unsteady from 
emotion — “You shall be my judge. Has she done 
wrong or right ?” 


34 


TAKING COMFORT. 


“ Right I” I responded, warmly. ‘‘ Right ! thank 
Heaven, my friend, for giving you a true woman for 
a wife. There is some hope now of your finding the 
comfort you sought so vainly in the beginning.’^ 
And he has found it — found it in a wise appro- 
priation of the good gifts of Providence according 
to his means. 





CHILDREN— A FAMILY SCENE. 


Mother I ” 

As I was saying’^ 

Mother I” 

^^Miss Jones wore a white figured satin” 

Oh ! mother !” 

With short sleeves” 

Mother ! mother !” 

^‘Looped up with a small rosebud” 

^^Isay! mother! mother!” 

The child now caught hold of her mother’s arm, 
and shook it violently, in her effort to gain the 
attention she desired, while her voice, which at first 
was low, had become loud and impatient. Mrs. 
Elder, no longer able to continue her account of the 
manner in which Miss Jones appeared at a recent 
ball, turned angrily toward little Mary, whose im- 
portunities had sadly annoyed her, and, seizing her 
by the arm, took her to the door and thrust her 
roughly from the room, without any inquiry as to 
what she wanted. The child screamed for a while 
at the door, and then went crying up-stairs. 


36 


CHILDREN — A FAMILY SCENE. 


what you said Mrs. Elder, fretfully, 

“you cannot teach children manners. Tve talked 
to Mary a hundred times about interrupting me 
when Tm engaged in conversation with any one.’' 

“ It’s line upon line and precept upon precept," 
remarked the visiter. “ Children are children, and 
we mustn’t expect too much from them." 

“But I see other people’s children sit down 
quietly and behave themselves when there is com- 
pany." 

“All children are not alike," said the visiter 
“ Some are more restless and impetuous than others- 
We have to consult their dispositions and pay re- 
gard thereto, or it will be impossible to manage 
them rightly. I find a great difference among my 
own children. Some are orderly, and others dis- 
orderly. Some have a strong sense of propriety, 
and others no sense of propriety at all." 

“It’s a great responsibility; is it not, Mrs. 
Peters ?" 

“Very great." 

“ It makes me really unhappy. 1 am sometimes 
tempted to wish them all in heaven; and then I 
would be sure they were well off and well taken care 
of. Some people appear to get along with their 
children so easy. I don’t know how it is. I 
can’t." 

Mrs. Peters could have given her friend a useful 
hint or two on the subject of managing children, if 


CHILDREN A FAMILY SCENE. 


1*7 


she had felt that she dared to do so. But she knevr 
Mrs. Elder to be exceedingly sensitive, and therefore 
she thought it best not to say any thing that might 
offend her. 

There was a quiet-looking old gentleman in the 
room where the two ladies sat conversing. He had 
a book in his hand, and seemed to be reading; 
though, in fact, he was observing all that was said 
and done. He had not designed to do this, but the 
interruption of little Mary threw his mind off his 
book, and his thoughts entered a new element. 
This person was a brother of Mrs. Elder, and had 
recently become domesticated in her family. ^ He 
was a bachelor. 

After the visiter had retired, Mrs. Elder sat down 
to her work-table in the same room where she had 
received her company, and resumed her sewing 
operations, which the call had suspended. She had 
not been thus engaged long, before Mary came back 
into the room, looking sad enough. Instead of 
going to her mother, she went up to the old gentle- 
nian, and looking into his face with her yet tearful 
eyes, said — 

Uncle William V* 

What, dear was returned in a kind voice. 

Something sticks my neck. WonH you see 
what it is 

Uncle William laid down his book, and, turning 

down the neck of Mary’s frock, found t^^at the point 

v.— 4 


38 


CHILDREN — A FA Mil, Y SCENE. 


of a pin was fretting her body. There was at least 
a dozen little scratches, and an inflamed spot the 
size of a dollar. 

Poor child he said, tenderly, as he removed 
the pin. There now ! It feels better, doesn^t it 

^‘Yes, it feels better; thank you, dear uncle!'' 
and Mary put up her sweet lips and kissed him. 
The old gentleman was doubly repaid for his trouble. 
Mary ran lightly away, and he resumed his book. 

In about ten minutes, the child opened the door 
and came in pulling the dredging-box, to which she 
had tied a string, along the floor, and marking the 
progress she made by a track of white meal. 

^‘You little torment!" exclaimed the mother, 
springing up, and jerking the string and box angrily 
from Mary's hand. It is too bad ! you know well 
mough that you had no business to touch this. Just 
b.e what a condition the floor is in ! Oh dear ! Shall 
i never teach the child any thing ?" 

Mrs. Elder took the dredging-box out into the 
kitchen, and gave the cook a sound scolding for per- 
mitting the child to have it. When she got back, 
Mary had her work-basket on the floor, rummaging 
through it for buttons and spools of cotton. 

^^Now just see that!" she exclaimed again. 

There now !" And little Mary's ears buzzed for 
half an hour afterwards from the sound box she re* 
ceived. 

After the child was thrust .'*»om the room, Mr». 


CHILDREN — A FAMILY SCENE. 

Elder said, fretfully, I’m out of all heart ! I never 
saw such children. They seem ever bent on doing 
something wrong. Hark ! what^s that 

There was the crash of something falling over 
head, followed by a loud scream. 

Uncle William and Mrs. Elder both started from 
the room and ran up-stairs. Here they found 
Henry, a boy two years older than Mary, who was 
between three and four, lying on the carpet with 
a bureau drawer upon him, which he had, while 
turning topsy-turvy after something or other, acci- 
dentally pulled out upon him. He was more fright- 
ened than hurt, by a great deal. 

‘^Now just look at that !” ejaculated the outraged 
mother when the cause of alarm became apparent. 

Just look at that, will you? Isn’t it beyond all 
endurance! Haven’t I told you a hundred times 
not to go near my drawers, ha ? No matter if you’d 
been half killed ! There, march o.ut of the room as 
quick as you can go.” And she seized Henry by 
the arm with a strong grip, and fairly threw him, in 
her anger, from the chamber. 

While she was yet storming, fretting, and fuming 
over the drawer. Uncle William retired from the 
apartment and went down-stairs again. On enter- 
ing the room he had left but a few minuted before, 
he found Mary at her mother’s work-basket again, 
notwithstanding the box she had received only a 
short time before for the same fault. 


40 


CHILDREN — A FAMILY SCENE. 


Mary/^ said Uncle William to the child, in a 
calm, earnest, yet kind voice. 

The child took its hands from the basket and 
came up to her uncle. 

Mary, didn’t your mother tell you not to go to 
her basket 

^^Yes, sir,’’ replied Mary, looking steadily into 
her uncle’s face. 

^^Then why did you go?” 

I don’t know.” 

^‘It was very wrong.” Uncle William spoke 
seriously, and the child’s face assumed a serious 
expression. 

Will you do it any more ?” 

^^No, sir.” Mary shrunk close to her uncle, and 
her reply was in a whisper. 

^^Be sure and not forget, Mary. Mother sews 
with her spools of cotton, and uses her scissors to 
make little Mary frocks and aprons, and if Mary 
takes any thing out of her work-basket, she can’t do 
her sewing good. Will you remember ?” 

Yes, sir.” 

Now don’t forget.” 

No, sir.” 

And just see, Mary, how you have soiled the 
carpet with the dredging-box ! Didn’t you know the 
fl )ur would come out and be scattered all over tho 
floor ?” 

No, sir.” 


CHILDREN A FAMILY SCENE. 


41 


^^But now you know 
‘‘ Yes, sir.’^ 

You won’t get the dredging-box any more ?” 

No, sir.” 

While this conversation was going on, Mrs. Elder 
came down, still feeling much excited. After Uncle 
William had said what he considered enough to 
Mary, he took up his book and commenced reading. 
The child stood leaning against him for five or ten 
minutes, and then ran out of tlio room. 

How long do you suppose slie will remember 
what you have said ?” remarked Mrs. Elder, with a 
lightness of tone that showed her contempt for all 
such measures of reform. 

Much longer than she will remember your box 
on the ear,” was the blunt reply. 

I doubt it. Words make no impression on 
children.” 

Harsh words make vei*y little impression, I 
admit. For these close up, instead of entering the 
avenues to the mind. Kind words, and reasons for 
things, go a great way even with children. How 
long did Mary remember and profit by your sound 
rating and box on the ear (still red with the blow) 
into the bargain ? Not over ten minutes ; for when 
I came down-stairs, she had both hands into your 
basket again.” 

‘‘ The little huzzy ! It’s well for her that I did 
not catch her at it !” 


4 * 


42 


CHILDREN — A FAMILY SCENE. 


It is well indeed, Sarah, for you would, by your 
angry and unjust punishment, have done the little 
creature a serious injury. Did you ever explain to 
her the use of your work-basket and the various 
things in it, and make her comprehend how neces- 
sary it was to you to have every thing in order 
there, just as you placed it ?” 

Gracious, William ! Do you think I haven’t 
something else to do besides wasting time in ex- 
plaining to children the use of every thing in my 
work-basket? What good would it do, I won- 
der?” 

It would do a great deal of good, Sarah, you 
may rely upon it, and be a great saving of time into 
tho bargain; for if you made your children properly 
comprehend the use of every thing around them, and 
how their meddling with certain things was wrong, 
because it would incommode you, you would find 
them far less disposed than now to put their hands 
into wrong places. Try it.” 

Nonsense! I wonder if I haven’t been trying 
all my life to make them understand that they were 
not to meddle with things that didn’t belong to them ! 
And what good has it done?” 

Very little, I must own ; for I never saw chil- 
dren who had less regard to what their mother says 
than yours have.” 

This touched Mrs. Elder a little. She didn’t 
mind animadverting upon the defects of her chil- 


CHILDREN — A FAMILY SCENE. 


43 


dren, but was ready to stand up in their defence 
whenever any one else found fault with them. 

I reckon they are not the worst children in the 
world/ ^ she replied, rather warmly. 

“ I should be sorry if they were. But they are 
not the best either, by a long way, although natu- 
rally as good children as are seen anywhere. It is 
your bad management that is spoiling them.^^ 

My management 

Frankly, Sarah, I am compelled to affirm that 
it is. I have been in your house, now, for three or 
four months, and must say that I am surprised that 
your children are as good as they are. Don’t be 
angry! Don’t be fretted with me as you are with 
every thing in them that doesn’t please you. I am 
old enough to hear reason as well as to talk reason. 
Let us go back to a point on which I wished to fix 
your attention, but from which we digressed. In 
trying to correct Mary’s habit of rummaging in your 
work-basket, you boxed her ears, and stormed at her 
in a most unmotherly way. Did it do any good ? 
No; for in ten minutes she was at the same work 
again. For this I talked to her kindly, and endea- 
voured to make her sensible that it was wrong to 
disturb your basket.” 

‘‘And much good it will do!” Mrs. Elder did 
not feel very amiable. 

“ We shall see,” said Uncle William, in his calm 
way. “ Now I propose that we both go out of this 


44 


CHILDREN A FAMILY SCENE. 


room, and let Mary come into it, and be here aloD« 
for half an hour. My word for it, she doesn’t touch 
your work-basket.” 

^^And my word for it, she goes to it the first 
thing.” 

Notwithstanding you boxed her ears for tho 
same fault so recently?” 

Yes, and notwithstanding you reasoned with 
her, and talked to her so softly but a few momenta 
since.” 

Very well. The experiment is worth making, 
not to see Mdio is right, but to see if a gentler mode 
of government than the one you have adopted will 
not be much better for your children. I am sure 
that it will.” 

As proposed, the mother and Uncle William left 
the room, and Mary was allowed to go into it and 
remain there alone for half an hour. Long before 
this time had expired, Mrs. Elder’s excited feelings 
had cooled off, and been succeeded by a more sober 
and reflective state of mind. At the end of the pro- 
posed period. Uncle William came down, and joining 
his sister, said — 

“ Now, Sarah, let us go and see what Mary has 
been doing ; but before we enter the room, let me 
beg of you not to show angry displeasure, nor to 
speak a. harsh or loud word to Mary, no matter what 
she may have been about; for it will do no good, 
but harm. \ou have tried it long enough, and 


CHILDREN — A FAMILY SCENE. 


45 


its ill effects call upon you to make a new experi- 
ment.’^ 

Mrs. Elder, who was in a better state than she 
was half an hour before, readily agreed to this. 
They then went together into the room. As they 
entered, Mary looked up at them from the floor 
where she was sitting, her face bright with smiles 
at seeing them, 
a You lit” 

Uncle William grasped quickly the hand of his 
sister to remind her that she was not to speak harsh- 
'ly to Mary, no matter what she was doing, and was 
thus able to check the storm of angry reproof that 
was about to break upon the head of the child, who 
had been up to the book-case and taken therefrom 
two rows of books, with which she was playing on 
the floor. 

*^What are you doing, dear?” asked Uncle Wil- 
liam, kindly. 

Building a house,” replied the child, the smiles 
that the sudden change in the mother’s countenance 
had driven from her face, cbming back and lighting 
up her beautiful young brow. “ See here what a 
pretty house I have, uncle ! And here is the fence, 
and these are trees.” 

“ So it is, a very pretty house,” replied the un.de, 
while the mother could scarcely repress her indig- 
nation at the outrage Mary had committed upon the 
book-case. 


46 


CHILDREN A FAMILY SCENE. 


The uncle glanced toward the table, upon which 
the work-basket remained undisturbed. He then 
sat down, and said — “ Come here, love.’^ * 

Mary got up and ran quickly to him. 

You didnH touch mother’s work-basket?” he 

said. 

‘‘ No, sir,” replied Mary. 

^^Why?” 

Mary thought a moment, and then said — You 
told me not to do it any more.” 

‘'Why not?” 

“ Because if I take the cotton and scissors, mother 
can’t make aprons and frocks for Mary.” 

“ And if you go into her work-basket, you disturb 
every thing and make her a great deal of trouble. 
You won’t do it any more?” 

“ No, sir.” And the child shook her head earn- 
estly. 

“ Didn’t you know that it was also wrong to take 
the books out of the book-case ? It not only hurts 
the books, but throws the room and the book-case 
into disorder.” 

" I wanted to build a house,” said Mary. 

" But books are to read, not to build houses 
with.” 

" Won’t you ask papa to buy me a box of blocks, 
like Hetty G-reen’s, to build houses with ?” 

" I’ll buy them for you myself the next time 1 
go out,” replied Uncle William. 


CHILDREN — A FAMTLY SCENE. 


47 


Oh, will you And Mary clapped her hands 
joyfully together. 

But you must never disturb the books in the 
book-case any more.’^ 

No, sir,^^ replied the child, earnestly. 

Mrs. Elder felt rebuked. To hide what was too • 
plainly exhibited in her countenance, she stooped to 
the floor and commenced taking up the books and 
replacing them in the book-case. 

Now go up into my room,* Mary, and wait 
there until I come. I want to tell you some- 
thing.^^ 

The child went singing up-stairs as happy as she 
could be. 

You see, Sarah, that kind words are more eflec- 
tive than harsh names with children. Mary didn’t 
touch your work-basket.” 

“ But she went to the book-case, which was just 
as bad. Children must be in some mischief.” 

Not so bad, Sarah ; for she had been made to 
comprehend why it was wrong to go to your basket, 
but not so of the book-case.” 

I’m sure 1’v.e scolded her about taking down 
the books fifty times, and still, every chance she can 
get, she’s at them again.” 

You may have scolded her; but scolding a child 
and making it comprehend its error are two things. 
Scolding darkens the mind by arousing evil passions, 
instead of enlightening it with clear perceptions of 


48 


CHILDREN — A EAMJLY SCENE. 


right and wrong. No child is ever improved hy 
scolding^ hut always injured.” 

There are few children who are not injured, 
then. I should like to see a mother get along with 
a parcel of children without scolding them.^^ 

“ It is a sad truth, as you say, that there are but 
few children who are not injured by scolding. No 
cause is so active for evil among children as their 
mother’s impatience, which shows itself from the 
first, and acts upon them through the whole period 
in which their minds are taking impressions and 
hardening into permanent forms. Like you, Sarah, 
our own mother had but little patience among her 
children, and you can look back and remember, as 
well as I, many instances in which this impatience 
led her into hasty and ill-judged acts and expres- 
sions that did us harm rather than good.” 

It’s an easy thing to talk, William. An easy 
thing to say — Have patience.” 

^^I know it is, Sarah ; and a very hard thing to 
compel ourselves to have patience. But, if a mo- 
ther’s love for her children be not strong enough to 
induce her to govern herself for their sakes, who 
shall seek their good ? Who will make any sacrifice 
for them ?” 

Are you not afraid to trust Mary up in your 
room ?” said Mrs. Elder, recollecting at the moment 
that Mary was alone there for a longer time than she 
felt to be prudent. 


CHILDREN — FAMILY SCENE. 


49 


No. She will not trouble any thing.^^ 

** Fd be afraid to trust her. She’s a thoughtless, 
impulsive child, and might do some damage.” 

“No danger. She understands perfectly what 
may be and what may not be touched in my room, 
and so do all the children in the house. I wouldn’t 
be afraid to leave them all there for an hour.” 

“ You’d be afraid afterwards, I guess, if you were 
to try the experiment.” 

“ I am willing to try it,” 

“ You are welcome.” 

“ Henry ! William !” Uncle William went to 
the door and called the children. 

Two boys came romping into the room. 

“ Boys,” he said, “ Mary is up in my room, and 
I want you to go up and stay with her until I 
come.” 

Away scampered the little fellows as merry as 
crickets. 

“ They’ll make sad work in your room, brother ; 
and if they do, you mustn’t blame me for it.” 

“ Oh, no, I shall not blame you, nor scold them, 
but endeavour to apply some corrective that will 
make them think, and determine never to do so 
again. However, I am pretty well satisfied that no- 
thing will be disturbed.” 

In less than an hour, Mrs. Elder and her brother 
went up to see what the children were about. They 

found them seated on the floor, with two or three 

V.--5 


60 


CHILDREN — A FAMILY SCENE. 


lc*ose packs of plain cards about them, out of which 
they were forming various figures by laying them 
together upon the floor. 

Why, children I How could you take your 
uncle^s cards said Mrs. Elder reprovingly. 

He lets us play with them, mother,” replied the 
oldest boy, turning to his uncle with an appealing 
look. 

You haven’t touched any thing else ?” said Uncle 
William. 

'^No, sir, nothing else. We found Mary playing 
with the cards when we came up, and we’ve been 
playing with them ever since. You don’t care, do 
you, Uncle William ?’’ 

^^No; for I’ve told you, you remember, that you 
might play with the cards whenever you wanted to.” 

Can’t we play with them longer. Uncle Wil- 
liam ?” asked Mary. 

Yes, my dear, you can play with them as long 
as you choose.” 

Mrs. Elder and her brother turned away and went 
down-stairs. 

“ I don’t know how it is, William, that they be- 
have themselves so well in your room, and act like 
so many young Yandals in every other part of the 
house.” 

It is plain enough, Sarah,” replied her brother. 

I never scold them, and never push them aside 
when they come to me, no matter what I’m engaged in 


CHILDREN — A FAMILY SCENE, 


51 


doing. I never think a little time taken from other 
employments thrown away when devoted to children • 
and, therefore, I generally hear what they have to 
say, let them come to me when they will. Some- 
times I am engaged in such a way that I must not 
be interrupted, and then I lock my door. I have 
explained this to them, and now the children, when 
they find my door locked, immediately go away. 
On admitting them into my room at first, I was very 
careful to tell them that such and such things must on 
no account be touched, and explain the reason why ; 
at the same time I gave them free permission to play* 
with other things that could sustain no serious injury. 
Only once or twice has any of them ventured to 
trespass on forbidden ground. .But, instead of 
scolding, or even administering a reprimand, I for- 
bade the one who had done wrong coming to my 
room for a certain time. In no case have I had to 
repeat the interdiction. If I can thus govern them 
in my room, I am sure you can do it in the whole 
house, if you go the right way about it.” 

‘‘You say that you always attend to them when 
they come to you ?” said Mrs. Elder. 

“ Yes. I try to do so, no matter how much I am 
engaged.” 

If I were to do that, I would be attending to 
them all the time. I couldn’t sit a moment with a 
visitor, nor say three w^ords to anybody. You saw 
how it was this morning. The moment I sat down 


52 


CHILDREN A FAMILY SCENE 


to talk with Mrs. Peters, Mary came and commenced 
interrupting me at every word, until I was forced to 
put her from the room.” 

Yes, I saw it,” replied the brother in a voice 
that plainly enough betrayed his disapproval of his 
sister’s conduct in that particular instance. 

And you think I ought to have neglected my 
visitor to attend to an ill-mannered child ?” 

“ I think, when Mary came to you, as she did, 
that you should have attended to her at once. If 
you had done so, you would have relieved her from 
pain, and saved yourself and visitor from a serious 
annoyance.” 

How do you mean ?” 

Don’t you know what Mary wanted ?” 

^‘No.” 

Is it possible ! I thought you learned it when 
she came to me after Mrs. Peters had left. 

No, I didn’t know. What was the matter with 
her?” 

The brother stepped to the door and called for 
Mary, who presently came running down-stairs. 

‘‘What do you want, uncle?” said she, as she 
came up to him and lifted her sparkling blue eyes 
to his face. 

“ What were you going to ask your mother to do 
for you when Mrs. Peters was here this morning?” 

“A pin stuck me,” replied the child, artlessly. 
'‘ Don’t you know that you took it out ?” ^ 


CHILDREN — A FAMILY SCENE. 


53 


^^Yes, so I did. Let me look at the place/’ and 
he turned down Mary’s frock so that her mother 
could see the scratched and inflamed spot upon lar 
neck. 

^‘Poor child I” said Mrs. Elder, the tears spring 
ing to her eyes as she stooped down and kissed the 
wounded place. 

“ Are you playing with the cards yet, dear 
asked Uncle William. 

Yes, sir.” 

^‘Do you want to play more 

^‘Yes, sir.” 

“ Run along then.” And Mary tripped lightly away. 

‘‘ When the child first spoke to you, Sarah, if you 
had paused to see what she wanted, all would have 
been right in a few minutes. Even if her request 
had been frivolous, by attending to it you would 
have satisfied her, and been in a much better frame 
of mind to entertain your friend.” 

Mrs. Elder was silent. There was conviction in 
Mary’s inflamed neck not to be resisted; and the 
conviction went to her heart. 

We,” said the old gentleman, who have at- 
tained to the age of reason, expect children, who do 
not reflect, to act with all the propriety of men and 
women, and that, too, without mild and correct in- 
struction as to their duties. Are wc not most to 
blame ? They must regard our times, seasons, and 
conveniences, and we will attend to their ever active 


54 


CHILDREN A FAMILY SCENE. 


wauts, when our leisure will best permit us to do so. 
Is it any wonder, under such a system, that children 
are troublesome ? Would it not be a greater wonder 
were they otherwise? We must first learn self- 
government and self-denial before we can rightly 
govern children. After that, the task will be an 
easy one.^^ 

Mrs. Elder stayed to hear no more, but, rising ab- 
ruptly, went up into her chamber to think. When 
she reappeared in her family, her countenance was 
subdued, and when she spoke, her voice was lower 
and more earnest. It was remarkable to see how 
readily her children minded when she spoke to them, 
and how affectionately they drew around her. Uncle 
William was delighted. In a few days, however, 
old habits returned, and then her brother came to 
her aid, and by timely uttered counsel gave her new 
strength. It was wonderful to see what an improve- 
ment three months had made, and at the end of a 
year no more loving and orderly household could 
be found. It took much of Mrs. Elder’s time, and 
occupied almost constantly her thoughts ; but the 
result well paid for all. 

Thinking that this every-day incident in the his- 
tory of a friend would appeal strongly to some 
mother who has not yet learned to govern herself, 
or properly regard the welfare of her children, we 
have sketched it hastily, and send it forth in the 
hope that it may do good. 


LOSING ONE’S TEMPEE. 


I WAS sitting in my room one morning, feeling 
all out of sorts’^ about something or other, when 
an orphan child, whom I had taken to raise, came 
in with a broken tumbler in her hand, and said, 
while her young face was pale, and her little lip 
quivered, — 

“ See, Mrs. Graham ! I went to take this tumbler 
from the dresser to get Anna a drink of water, and 
I let it MW’ 

I was in a fretful humour before the child came 
in, and her appearance, with the broken tumbler in 
her hand, did not tend to help nle to a better state of 
mind. She was suffering a good deal of pain in con- 
sequence of the accident, and needed a kind word to 
quiet the disturbed beatings of her heart. But she 
had come to me in an unfortunate moment. 

“ You are a careless little girl I” said I, severely, 
taking the fragments of glass from her trembling 
hands. A very careless little girl, and I am dis- 
pleased with you ! 

I said no more; but my countenance expressed 

6 .) 


66 


LOSING one’s temper. 


even stronger rebuke than my words. The child 
lingered near me for a few moments, and then 
shrunk away from the room. I was sorry, in a 
moment, that I had permitted myself to speak un- 
kindly to the little girl ; for there was no need of 
my doing so, and, moreover, she had taken ray 
words, as I could see, deeply to heart. I had made 
her unhappy without a cause. The breaking of the 
tumbler was an accident likely to happen to any one, 
and the child evidently felt bad enough about what 
had occurred, without having my displeasure added 
thereto. 

If I was unhappy before Jane entered my room, 
I was still more unhappy after she retired. I blamed 
myself, and pitied the child; but this did notin the 
least mend the matter. 

In about half an hour, Jane came up very quietly, 
with'Willy, my dear little, curly-haired, angel-faced 
boy, in her arms. He had fallen asleep, and she 
had, with her utmost strength, carried him up-stairs. 
She did not lift her eyes to mine as she entered, but 
went, with her burden, to the low bed that was in 
the room, where she laid him tenderly, and then sat 
down with her face turned partly away from me, and 
with a fan kept oif the flies and cooled his moist skin. 

Enough of Jane’s countenance was visible to 
enable me to perceive that its expression was sad. 
And it was an unkind word from my lips that had 
brought this cloud over her young flice ! 


LOSING one’s temper. 


57 


So much for permitting myself to fall into a 
fretful mood/’ said I, mentally. In future I must 
be more watchful over my state of mind. I have no 
right to make others suffer from my own unhappy 
temper.” 

Jane continued to sit by Willy and fan him; and 
every now and then I could hear a very low sigh 
come up, as if involuntarily, from her bosom. 
Faint as the sound .was, it smote upon my ear, and 
added to my uncomfortable frame of mind. 

A friend called, and I went down into the parlour, 
and sat conversing there for an hour. But all the 
while there was a weight upon my feelings. I tried, 
but in vain, to be cheerful. I was too distinctly 
aware of the fact, that an individual — and that a 
motherless little girl — was unhappy through my 
unkindness ; and the consciousness was like a heavy 
hand upon my bosom. 

“ This is all a weakness,” I said to myself, after 
my friend had left, making an effort to throw off the 
uncomfortable feeling. But it was of no avail. 
Even if the new train of thought, awakened by con^ 
versation with my friend, had lifted me above the 
state of mind in which I was when she came, the 
sight of Jane’s sober face, as she passed me on the 
stairs, would have depressed my feelings again. 

In order both to relieve my own and the child’s 
feelings, I thought I would refer to the broken 
tumbler, and tell her not to grieve herself about it, 


58 


LOSING ONE S TEMPER. 


as its loss was of no consequence whatever. But, 
this would have been to have made an acknowledg- 
ment to her that I had been in the wrong, and an 
instinctive feeling of pride remonstrated against that. 

“ Ah me I sighed. Why did I permit myself 
to speak so unguardedly ? How small are the causes 
that sometimes destroy our peace ! How much of 
good or evil is there in a single word !” 

Some who read this may think that I was very 
weak to let a hastily uttered censure against a care- 
less child trouble me. What are a child’s feelings ? 

I have been a child ; and, as a child, have been 
blamed severely by those whom I desired to please, 
and felt that unkind words fell heavier and more 
painfully, sometimes, than blows. I could, there- 
fore, understand the nature of Jane’s feelings, and 
sympathize with her to a certain extent. 

All through the day, Jane moved about more qui- 
etly than usual. When I spoke to her about any 
thing — which I did in a kinder voice than I ordi- 
narily used — she would look into my face with an 
earnestness that rebuked me. 

Toward evening, I sent her down-stairs for a pit- 
cher of cool water. She went quickly, and soon re- 
turned with the pitcher of water, and a tumbler, on 
a waiter. She was coming towards me, evidently 
using more than ordinary caution, when her foot 
tripped against something, and she stumbled for- 
ward. It was in vain that she tried to save the 


LOSING one’s temper. 


59 


pitcher. Its balance was lost, and it fell over and 
was broken to pieces at my feet, the water dashing 
upon the skirt of my dress. 

The poor child became instantly as pale as ashes, 
and the frightened look she gave me I shall not soon 
forget. She tried to speak, and say that it was an 
accident, but her tongue was paralyzed for the mo- 
ment, and she found no utterance. 

The lesson I had received in the morning served 
me for purposes of self-control now, and I said, in- 
stantly, in a mild voice — 

Never mind, Jane; I know you couldn’t help 
it. I must tack down that loose edge of the carpet. 
I came near tripping there myself to-day. Gro and 
get a floor-cloth and wipe up the water as quickly as 
you can, while I gather up the broken pieces.” 

The colour came back instantly to Jane’s face. 
She gave me one grateful look, and then ran quickly 
away, to do as I had directed her. When she came 
back, she blamed herself for not having been more 
careful, expressed sorrow for the accident, and pro- 
mised over and over again that she would be more 
guarded in future. 

The contrast between both of our feelings now and 
what they were in the morning, was very great. I 
felt happier for having acted justly and with due 
self-control; and my little girl, though*troubled on 
account of the accident, had not the extra burden of 
my displeasure to bear. 


60 


LOSING ONK’s temper. 


Better, far better, said I to myself, as I sat 
and reflected upon the incidents just related — “ bet- 
ter, far better is it, in all our relations in life, to 
maintain a calm exterior, and on no account to 
speak harshly to those who are below us. Angry 
words make double wounds. They hurt those to 
whom they are addressed, while they leave a sting 
behind them. Above all, should we guard against 
a moody temper. Whenever we permit any thing 
to fret our minds, we are not in a state to exercise 
due self-control, and if temptation comes then we 
are sure to fall.^’ 


TE.OUBLE WITH SERVANTS. 


dear Mrs. Graham!’^ said my neighboui 
Mrs. Jones to me one day, ‘‘ what shall I do for good 
help ? I am almost worried out of my senses. I 
wish somebody would invent a machine to cook, 
wash, scrub, and do housework in general. What a 
blessing it would be ! As for the whole tribe of 
flesh and blood domestics, they are not worth their 
salt.’^ 

“They are all poorly educated,’^ I replied, “and 
we cannot expect much of them. Most of them 
have nearly every thing to learn when they come 
into our houses, and are bad scholars into the 
bargain. But we must have patience. I find it my 
only resource.’^ 

“ Patience I” ejaculated Mrs. Jones, warmly. It 
would require more patience than Job ever possessed 
to get along with some of them.” 

“And yet,” said I, “we accomplish little or 
nothing by impatience. At least such is my 
experience.” 

“ I don't know, ma'am,” replied Mrs. Jones. “ If 


62 


TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS. 


you go 'o ]) rg gentle and easy with them, if you 
don’t follow them up at every point, you will soon 
have affairs in a pretty condition ! They don’t care 
a fig for your comfort nor interest — not they ! In 
fact, more than half of them would, a thousand 
times, rather make things disagreeable for you than 
otherwise.” 

I know they are a great trial, sometimes,” I an- 
swered, not feeling at liberty to say to my visiter 
all I thought. ‘‘ But we must endeavour to bear it 
the best we can. That is my rule ; and I find, in 
the long run, that I get on much better when I re- 
press all exhibition of annoyance at their careless- 
ness, short-comings, neglect, or positive misdeeds, 
than I do when I let them see that I am annoyed, 
or exhibit the slightest angry feeling.” 

Not long after this, we accepted an invitation to 
take tea with Mr. and Mrs. J ones, and I then had an 
opportunity of seeing how she conducted herself 
towards her domestics. I was in no way surprised, 
afterwards, that she found difficulty in getting along 
with servants. 

Soon after my husband and myself went in, and 
while we were sitting in the parlour, Mrs. Jones had 
occasion to call a servant. I noticed that, when she 
rung the bell, she did so with a quick jerk ; and I 
could perceive a tone of authority in the ting-a-ling 
of the bell, the sound of which was distinctly heard. 
Nearly two minutes passed before the servant made 


TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS. 


63 


her appearance, in which time the hell received a 
more vigorous jerk. At last she entered, looking 
flushed and hurried. 

“ What’s the reason you did not come when I first 
rung?” inquired our lady hostess, in a severe tone. 

— I — came as quick as I could,” replied the 
girl, with a look of mortification at being spoken to 
before strangers. 

No, you didn’t ! It’s your custom to wait until 
I ring twice. Now let this be the last time !” 

And then, in a low voice, Mrs. Jones gave the 
direction for which she had summoned her. 

Such a set !” ejaculated the lady, as the girl left 
the room. Her words were intended to reach other 
ears besides ours; and so they did. ^‘That girl,” 
she continued, addressing me, ^^has a habit of 
making me ring twice. It really seems to give 
them pleasure, I believe, to annoy you. Ah, me ! 
this trouble with servants is a never ending one. It 
meets you at every turn.” 

And, for some time, she animadverted upon her 
favourite theme — for such it appeared to be, — until 
her husband, who was evidently annoyed, managed 
to change the subject of discourse. Once or twice 
she came back to it before tea-time. 

At last the tea bell rung, and we ascended to the 
dining-room. We were but fairly seated, when a 
frown darkened suddenly on the brow of our hostess, 
and her hand applied itself nervously to the table-beU. 


64 


TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS. 


The girl who had set the table came up from the 
kitchen. 

There is no sugar in the bowl/^ said Mrs. Jones 
sharply. I wish you would learn to set the table 
while you are about it. Tm sure I have spoken to 
you often enough.^^ 

As the girl took the sugar-bowl to fill it, the 
frown left the face of our hostess, and she turned to 
me with a bland smile, and asked whether I used 
sugar and cream in my tea. I replied in the affirm- 
ative ; but did not smile in return, for I could not. 
I knew the poor girl’s feelings were hurt at being 
spoken to in such a way before strangers, and this 
made me extremely uncomfortable. 

Do you call this cream was the angry in- 
terrogation of Mrs. Jones, as the girl peturned with 
the sugar, pushing towards her the cream-jug, which 
she had lifted from the table as she spoke. 

‘‘ Yes, ma’am,” was replied. 

Look at it, and see, then.” 

It’s the cream,” said the girl. 

If that’s cream, I never want to see milk. Here ! 
take it away and bring me the cream.” 

The girl looked confused and distressed. But she 
took the cream-jug and went down-stairs with it. 

That’s just the way they always do !” said Mrs. 
Jones, leaning back in her chair. I really get 
out of all patience, sometimes.” n 

In a little while the girl returned. 


TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS. 6t) 

the creaL^ ma'am, as I said. Here’s the 
milk." And she presented two vessels. 

Mrs. Jones took both from her hands with an ill 
natured jerk. Sure enough, it was as the girl had 
said. 

Such cream !" fell from the lips of our hostess, 
as she commenced pouring it into the cups alreadj 
filled with tea. 

The girl went down-stairs to take back the milk 
she had brought up, but she Avas scarcely at the 
bottom of the stairs, when the bell was rung for 
her. 

AVhy don't you stay here ? What are you 
running off about?" said Mrs. Jones, as she came 
in hurriedly. You know I want you to w^ait on 
the table." 

And so it was during the whole meal. The girl 
was not once spoken to except in a tone of anger or 
offensive authority. 

I was no longer surprised that 31rs. Jones found 
it difficult to keep good domestics, for no one of 
feeling can long remain with a woman who speaks 
to them always in a tone of command, or wffio 
reproves them in the presence of visitors. 

My husband was very severe upon Mrs. Jones 
after we returned home. No lady," said he, ‘^ever 
spoke in anger or reproof to a domestic before 0 
visitor or stranger. Nothing more surely evinces a 

vulgar and unfeeling mind." 

6 * 


66 


TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS. 


I did not attempt to gainsay his remark, fc-r he 
expressed but my own sentiment. So far from 
uttering a reproof in the presence of a visitor, I am 
careful not to speak to my domestics about any fault 
even in the presence of my husband. They have a 
certain respect for themselves, and a certain delicacy 
of feeling, which we should rather encourage than 
break down. Nearly all domestics are careful to 
appear as well as possible in the eyes of the head of 
the family, and it hurts them exceedingly to be 
reproved, or angrily spoken to, before him. This 
every woman ought to know by instinct, and those 
who do not are just so far deficient in the aggregate 
of qualities that go to make up the true lady. 

I was by no means surprised to hear from Mrs. 
Jones, a few days afterwards, that the ‘^good-for- 
nothing creature’' who waited upon the table on the 
occasion of our taking tea at her house, had gone 
away and left her. I thought better of the girl for 
having the spirit to resent, in this way, the outrage 
committed upon her feelings. Domestics have rights 
and feelings; and if people were to regard these more, 
and treat them with greater kindness and considera- 
tion than they do, there would be fewer complaints 
than there are at present. This is my opinion, and 
I must be pardoned for expressing it. 


HAVEN’T THE CHANGE. 


It was house-cleaning time, and I had an old 
coloured woman at work scrubbing and cleaning 
paint. 

Polly is going, ma^am,’^ said one of my domes- 
tics, as the twilight began to fall. 

Very well. Tell her that I shall want her to- 
morrow.^' 

I think she would like to have her money for 
to-day’s work,” said the girl. 

I took oufrmy purse, and found that I had nothing 
in it less than a three-dollar hill. 

How much does she have a day ?” 

“ Six shillings, ma’am.” 

I haven’t the change this evening. Tell her 
tha^ I’ll pay for both days to-morrow.” 

The girl ieft rbe room, and I thought no more 
of Polly for an hour. Tea-time had come and 
passed, when one of my domestics, who was rather 
communicative in her habits, said to me : 

I don’t think old Polly liked your not paying 
her this evening.” 

She must be very unreasonable, then,” said I, 

V t)7 


68 


haven’t the change. 


without reflection. “I sent her word that I had no 
change. How did she expect I could pay her ?” 

Some people are queer, you know, Mrs. Graham,” 
remarked the girl who had made the communication, 
more for the pleasure of telling it than any thing 
else. 

I kept thinking over what the girl had said, until 
other suggestions came into my mind. 

^ ‘‘ I wish I had sent and got a bill changed,” said 
I, as the idea that Polly might be really in want of 
money intruded itself. It would have been very 
little trouble.” 

This was the beginning of a new train of reflec- 
tions, which did not make me very happy. To 
avoid a little trouble, I had sent the poor old woman 
away, after a hard day’s work, without her money. 
That she stood in need of it was evident from the 
fact that she had asked for it. 

How very thoughtless in me,” said I, as I 
dwelt longer and longer on the subject. 

What’s the matter ?” inquired my husband, 
seeing me look serious?. 

“Nothing to be very much troubled at,” I re- 
plied. 

“Yet you are troubled.” 

“ T am ; and cannot help it. You will, perhaps, 
smile at me, but small causes sometimes produce 
much pain. Old l^lly has been at work all day, 
scrubbing and cleaning. When night came, she 


haven’t the change. 


69 


asked for her wages, and I, instead of taking the 
trouble to get the money for her, sent her word that 
I hadn’t the change. There was nothing less than 
a three-dollar bill in my purse. I didn't reflect 
that a poor old woman who has to go out to daily 
work must need her money as soon as it is earned. 
I am very sorry.” 

My husband did not reply for some time. My 
words appeared to have made considerable impres- 
sion on his mind. 

Do you know where Polly lives ?” he inquired 
at length. 

No ; but I will ask the girl.” And immedi- 
ately ringing the bell, I made inquiries as to where 
Polly lived; but no one in the house knew. 

It cannot be helped now,” said my husband, in 
a tone of regret. But I would be more thought- 
ful in future. The poor always have need of their 
money. Their daily labour rarely does more than 
supply their daily wants. I can never forget a cir- 
cumstance that occurred when I was a boy. My 
mother was left a widow when I was but nine years 
old — and she was poor. It was by the labour of 
her hands that she obtained shelter and food for her- 
self and three little ones. 

Once, I remember the occurrence as if it had 
taken place yesterday, we were out of money and 
food. At breakfast-time our last morsel was eaten, 
n,nd we went through the long day without a mouth- 


70 


haven’t the change. 


ful of bread. We all grew very hungry by night, 
but our Toother encouraged us to be patient a little 
and a little while longer, until she finished the 
garment she was making, when she would take that 
and some other work home to a lady who would 
pay her for the work. Then, she said, we should 
have a nice supper. At last the work was finished, 
and I went with my mother to help carry it home, 
for she was weak and sickly, and even a light burden 
fatigued her. The lady for whom she had made 
the garment was in good circumstances, and had 
no want unmet that money could supply. When 
we came into her presence, she took Ihe work, and, 
after glancing at it carelessly, said, 

‘ It will do very well.^ 

My mother lingered ; perceiving which, the lady 
said, rather rudely, 

^ You want your money, I suppose. How much 
does the work come to ?’ 

^^^Two dollars,’ replied my mother. The lady 
,took out her purse; and, after looking through a 
small parcel of bills, said, 

haven’t the change this evening. Call over 
any time, and you shall have it.’ 

And without giving my mother time more earn- 
estly to urge her request, turned from us and left the 
room. I never shall forget the night that followed. 
My mother’s feelings were sensitive and independent 
She could not make known her want. An hour 


haven’t the change. 


71 


after our return home, she sat weeping with her 
children around her, when a neighbour came in, and, 
learning our situation, supplied the present need.” 

This relation did not make me feel any the more 
comfortable. Anxiously I waited, on the next 
morning, the arrival of Poll}". As soon as she 
came I sent for her, and, handing her the money 
she had earned on the day before, said, 

‘‘Pm sorry I hadn’t the change for you last night, 
Polly. I hope you didn’t want it very badly.” 

Polly hesitated a little, and then replied, 

“Well, ma’am, I did want it very much, or I 
wouldn’t have asked for it. My poor daughter 
Hetty is sick, and I wanted to get her something 
nice to eat.” 

“Pm very sorry,” said I, with sincere regret. 
“ How is Hetty this morning ?” 

“ She isn’t so well, ma’am. And I feel \ery bad 
about her.” 

“ Come up to me in half an hour, Polly,” said I. 

The old woman went down-stairs. When she 
appeared again, according to my desire, I had a 
basket for her, in which were some wine, sugar, 
fruit, and various little matters that I thought her 
daughter would relish, and told her to go at once 
and take them to the sick girl. Her expressions of 
gratitude touched my feelings deeply. Never since 
have I omitted, under any pretence, to pay the poor 
their wages as soon as earned. 


OLD MAIDS’ CHILDREN. 


Ip that were my child, Td soon break him of 
such airs and capers. Only manage him right, and 
he’ll be as good a boy as can be found anywhere.” 

Very few people appear to have any right go- 
vernment over their children.” 

“ Very few. Here is my sister; a sensible woman 
enough, and one would think the very person to 
raise, in order and obedience, a family of eight chil- 
dren. But she doesn’t manage them rightly ; and, 
what is remarkable, is exceedingly sensitive, and 
won’t take kindly the slightest hint from me on the 
subject. If I say to her, ^ If that were my child, 
Sarah, I would do so and so,’ she will be almost sure 
to retort something about old maids’ children.” 

Yes, that’s the way. No matter how defective 
the family government of any one may be, she will 
not allow others to suggest improvements.” 

“ It would not be so with me. If I had a family 
of children, I should not only see their faults, but 
gladly receive hints from all sides as to their cor- 
rection.” 

72 


OLD maids’ children. 


7.-i 


It\s the easiest thing in the world to govern 
children, if you go the right way about it.’^ 

I know. There is nothing easier. And yet my 
sister will say, sometimes, that she is perfectly at a 
loss what to do. But no wouder. Like hundreds 
of others, she has let her children get completely 
ahead of her. If they don’t break her heart in the 
end, I shall be glad.’^ 

The immediate cause of this conversation between 
Miss Martha Spencer and a maiden lady who had 
oeen twenty-five for some ten or fifteen years — Mis« 
Spencer could not be accused of extensive juvenility — 
was the refractory conduct of Mrs. Fleetwood’s oldest 
child, a boy between six and seven years of age, by 
which a pleasant conversation had been interrupted, 
and the mother obliged to leave the room for a short 
period. 

I think, with you,^^ said Miss Jones, the visitor, 
that Mrs. Fleetwood errs very greatly in the ma- 
nagement of her children.’^ 

Management ! She has no management at all,’^ 
interrupted Miss Spencer. 

In not managing her children, then, if you 
will.^^ 

So I have told her, over and over again, but to 
no good purpose. She never receives it kindly. 
Why, if I had a child, I would never suffer it to cry 
after it was six months old. It is the easiest thing 

in the world to prevent it. And yet, one of Sarah’s 
V.-7 


74 


OLD maids’ CHlIiDRKN. 


children does little else but fret and cry all the time. 
She insists upon it that it can’t feel well. And sup- 
pose this to be the case ? — crying does it no good, 
but, in reality, a great deal of harm. If it is sick, 
it has made itself so by crying.” 

V ery likely. F ve known many such instances,” 
remarked Miss Jones. 

Mrs. Fleetwood, returning at the moment, checked 
this train of conversation. She did not allude to 
the circumstance that caused her to leave the room, 
but endeavoured to withdraw attention from it by 
some pleasant remarks calculated to interest the 
visitor and give the thoughts of all a new direction. 

I hope you punished Earnest, as he deserved to 
be,” said her sister, as soon as Miss Jones had re- 
tired. “ I never saw such a child !” 

He certainly behaved badly,” returned Mrs. 
Fleetwood, speaking in an absent manner. 

“He behaved outrageously ! If I had a child, 
and he were to act as Earnest did this morning, Fd 
teach him a lesson that he would not forget in a 
year.” 

“No doubt your children will be under very good 
government, Martha,” said Mrs. Fleetwood, a little 
sarcastically. 

“ If they are not under better government than 
yours. I’ll send them all to the House of Kefuge,” 
retorted Miss Martha. 

The colour on Mrs. Fleetwood’s cheeks grew 


OLD MAIDS' CHILDREN. 


75 


warmer at this remark, but she thought it best not 
to reply in a manner likely to provoke a further 
insulting retort, and merely said — 

If ever you come to have children of your own, 
sister, you will be able to understand, better than 
you now do, a mother's trials, doubts, and difficul- 
ties. At present, you think you know a great deal 
about managing children, but you know nothing. 

^‘1 know,’^ replied Martha, ^Hhat I could manage 
my own children a great deal better than you manage 
yours.'' 

If such should prove to be the case, no one will 
be more rejoiced at the result than I. But I look, 
rather, to see your children, if you should ever be- 
come a mother, worse governed than most people’s." 

“ You do 

Yes, I do." 

And why, pray ?" 

'^Because my own observation tells me, that 
those persons who are most inclined to see defects 
in family government, and to find fault with other 
people’s management of their children, are apt to 
have the most unruly young scape-graces in their 
houses to be found anywhere." 

That’s all nonsense. The fact that a person 
observes and reflects ought to make that person bet- 
ter qualified to act." 

Bight observation and reflection, no doubt, will 
But right observation and reflection in regard to 


76 


OLD MAIDS CHILDREN, 


children will make any one modest and fearful on 
the subject of their right government, rather than 
bold and boastful. Those who, like you, think 
themselves so well qualified to manage children, 
usually make the worst managers.’^ 

It’s all very well for you to talk in that way,’^ 
said Martha, tossing her head. “ But, if I ever 
have children of my own, ITl show you whether I 
have the worst young scape-graces to be found any- 
where.’’ 

A low, fretful cry, or rather whine, had been 
heard from a child near the door of the room, for 
some time. It was one of those annoying, irritating 
cries, that proceed more from a fretful state of mind 
than from any adequate external exciting cause. 
Martha paused a moment, and then added — 

^‘Do you think I would sujffer a child to cry 
about the house half of its time, as Ellen does ? No, 
indeed. I’d soon settle that.” 

“How would you do it ?” 

“ I’d make her stop crying.” 

“ Suppose you couldn’t ?” 

“ Couldn’t ! That’s not the way for a mother to 
talk.” 

“Excuse me, Martha,” said Mrs. Fleetwood, 
rising. “ I would rather not hear such remarks 
from you, and now repeat wliat I have before said, 
more than once, that I wish you to leave me free to. 
do what I think right in my own family ; as I un- 


OLD maids’ I'^IIILDREN. 


77 


doubtedl}' will leave you free, if ever you should have 
one.” 

And Mrs. Fleetwood left the room, and taking the 
little girl who was crying at the door by the hand, 
led her up stairs. 

^‘What is the matter, Ellen?” she asked as 
calmly and as soothingly as the irritating nature of 
Ellen’s peculiar cry or whine would permit her. 

Earnest won’t play with me,” replied the child, 
still crying. 

Come up into my room, and see if there isn’t 
something pretty there to play with.” 

“ No — I don’t want to,” was the crying answer. 

^‘Yes; come.” And Mrs. Fleetwood led along 
the resisting child. 

No — no — no — I don’t want to go. I want 
Earnest to play with me.” 

Humph ! I’d stop that pretty quick !” remarked 
Miss Spencer to herself, as the petulant cry of the 
child grew louder. “ I’d never allow a child of 
mine to go on like that.” . 

Mrs. Fleetwood felt disturbed. But experience 
had taught her that whenever she spoke from an ir- 
ritated state, her words rather increased than allayed 
the evil she sought to correct. So she drew the 
child along with her, using some force in order to do 
it, until she reached her chamber. Her strongest 
impulse, on being alone with Ellen, who still con- 
tinued crying, was to silence her instantly by the 


78 


OLD maids’ children. 


most summary process to which parental authority 
usually has resort in such cases ; but her mother’s 
heart suggested the better plan of diverting Ellen’s 
mind, if possible, and thus getting it into a happier 
state. In order to do this, she tried various means, 
but without effect. The child still cried on, and in 
a manner so disturbing to the mother, that she found 
it almost impossible to keep from enforcing silence 
by a stern threat of instant punishment. But she 
kept on, patiently doing what she thought to be 
right, and was finally successful in soothing the un- 
happy child. To her husband, with whom she was 
conversing on that evening about the state into 
which Ellen had fallen, she said — 

“ I find it very hard to get along with her. She 
tires my patience almost beyond endurance. Some- 
times it is impossible to bear with her crying, aud I 
silence it by punishment. But I observe that if I 
can produce a cheerful state by amusing her and 
getting her interested in some play or employment, 
she retains her even temper much longer than when 
she has been stopped from crying by threats or pu- 
nishment. If I only had patience with her, I could 
get along better. But it is so hard to have patience 
with a fretful, ever crying child. ’^’ 

Of the mental exercises through which Mrs. 
Fleetwood passed. Miss Martha Spencer knew no- 
thing. She saw only the real aud supposed errors 
of her mode of government, and strongly condemned 


OLD MAIDS^ CHILDREN. 


79 


them. Her doctrine was, in governing children, 

implicit obedience must be had at all hazards.’' 
At all hazards, as she generally expressed or thought 
it was only meant for extreme or extraordinary 
cases. Obedience she believed to be a thing easily 
obtained by any one who chose to enforce it. No 
where, it must be owned, did she see children as or- 
derly and obedient as she thought they should be. 
But that she did not hesitate to set down to the fault 
of the parents. Her influence in the family of her 
sister was not good. To some extent she destroyed 
the freedom of Mrs. Fleetwood, and to some extent 
disturbed the government of her children by inter- 
fering with it, and attempting to make the little ones 
do as she thought best. Her interference was borne 
about as well as it could be by her sister, who 
now and then gave her a “piece of her mind,” 
and in plain, straight forward terms. Mrs. Fleet- 
wood’s usual remark, when Martha talked about 
what she would do, if she had children, was a good 
humoured one, and generally something after this 
fashion — 

“ Old maids’ children are the best in the world, 1 
know. They* never cry, are never disobedient, and 
never act disorderly.” 

Martha hardly relished this mode of “stopping 
her off,” but it was generally eft’ective, though some- 
times it produced a slight ebullition. 

At last, though the chances in favour of matri- 


80 


OLD maids’ children. 


mony had become alarmingly few, Martha was 
wooed, won, and married to a gentleman named 
Laurie, who removed with her to the West. 

There is some prospect at last,’’ Mrs.- Fleetwood 
said to her husband, with a smile, on the occasion 
of Martha’s wedding, of sister’s being able to bring 
into practice her theories in regard to family govern- 
ment. I only hope the mother’s children may be 
as good as the old maid’s.” 

doubt if they will,” remarked the husband, 
smiling in turn. 

“ We shall see.” 

Years passed, and Martha, now Mrs. Laurie, re- 
mained in the West. Her sister frequently heard 
from her by letter, and every now and then received 
the announcement of a fine babe born to the proud 
mother ; who as often spoke of her resolution to do 
her duty towards her children, and especially in the 
matter of enforcing obedience. She still talked elo- 
quently of the right modes of domestic government, 
and the high and holy duties of parents. 

“Let me be blamable in what I may,” said she, 
in one of these letters, “ it shall not be a disregard 
to the best interests of my children.” 

“ I hope not, indeed,” said Mrs. Fleetwood, after 
reading the passage to her husband. “ But those 
who really understand the true character of children, 
and are sensible of the fact that they inherit from 
their parents all the evil and disorderly tendencies 


OLD MAIDS^ CHILDREN. 


81 


not fully overcome in themselves, feel too deeply tne 
almost hopeless task they assume, to boast much of 
what they will do with their children. A humble, 
reserved, even trembling consciousness of the diffi- 
culties in the way of the parent, is the most pro- 
mising state in which a parent can assume his or her 
responsibilities. To look for perfect order and 
obedience is to look for what never comes. Our 
duty is to sow good seed in the minds of our 
children, and to see that the ground be kept as 
free from evil weeds as possible. The time of 
fruit is not until reason is developed ] and we err 
in expecting fruit at an early period. There will 
come the tender blade, green and pleasant to the 
eye, and the firm, upright stalk, with its leaves 
and its branches; and flowers, too, after a while, 
beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers ; but the fruit 
of all our labour, of all our careful culture, ap- 
pears not until reason takes the place of mere 
obedience, and the child becomes the man. This 
view saves me from many discouragements; and 
leads me, in calm and patient hope, to persevere, 
even though through months, and, I might almost 
say, years, little prospect of ultimate fruit be- 
comes apparent. But, good seed must bring forth 
good fruit.” 

xifter a while, Mrs. Laurie ceased to write in her 
old strain. She sometimes spoke of her two eldest 
sons as flue boys, and of her two little girls as dear, 


OLD maids’ children. 


8‘-i 


sweet creatures ; but generally omitted saying any 
thing more about her family than that all were in 
good health. 

Ten years after Martha’s marriage and removal 
to the West, during which time the sisters had not 
met, business required Mr. Fleetwood to go to Cin- 
cinnati, and he proposed that his wife should ac- 
company him, and pay a visit to Mrs. Laurie, who 
lived in Springfield, Ohio. Mrs. Fleetwood readily 
consented, and they started in the pleasant month 
of October. 

On arriving at Springfield, they were met by Mr. 
Laurie at the stage-office and taken to his house, 
where the sisters met, overjoyed at seeing each other 
once more. 

Is that one of your children ?” asked Mrs. 
Fleetwood, after she had laid aside her bonnet and 
riding-dress, and seated herself in her sister’s cham- 
ber. A red-faced boy, with pouting lips, and a 
brow naturally or artificially so heavy as almost to 
conceal his organs of vision, stood holding on to 
one side of the door, and swinging himself in and 
out, all the while eyeing fixedly his aunt, of whose 
intended visit he had been advised. 

“ Yes, that is my oldest. Henry, come here and 
speak to your aunty.” 

But Henry did not change either attitude, mo- 
tion, nor expression, any more than if he had been 
a swinging automaton. 




OLD maids’ children. 83 

Did you hear me?” Mrs. Laurie spoke with a 
slight change in her voice and manner. 

The boy remained as impassive as before. 

“ Come, dear, and shake hands with me,” said 
Mrs. Fleetwood. 

Henry now put one of his thumbs into his mouth, 
but neither looked nor acted less savagely than at first. 

Mrs. Laurie was fretted at this unfavourable ex- 
hibition of himself by her son. She felt as if she 
would like to get hold of him and box his ears until 
they burned for a week. 

Henry ! Come here !” She spoke in a tone 
of command. The door was quite as much im- 
pressed as her son. 

“ Either come and speak to your aunty, or go 
down-stairs immediately.” 

The boy moved not. 

This was too much for Mrs. Laurie, and she stjJrted 
towards him. Henry let go of the door, and went 
down-stairs about as quietly as a horse would have 
gone. 

“ He’s such a strange, shy ’boy,” said Mrs. Lau- 
rie, apologetically. “ But he has a good heart, and 
you can do almost any thing with him. How is 
Earnest? the dear little fellow.” 

“Earnest is almost a man. He is as large as J 
am,” replied Mrs. Fleetwood. 

“ Indeed ! I can’t think of him as any thing but 
a bright little boy, not so large as my Henry.” 


84 


OLD maids’ children. 


As she said this, her Henry, who had gone clat 
tering down-stairs a few moments before, presented 
himself at the door again, and commenced swinging 
himself, and taking observations of the state of 
affairs within the chamber. The mother and aunt 
both concluded within their own minds that it was 
as well not to take any notice of him, and therefore 
went on with their conversation. Presently a happy, 
ringing voice was heard upon the stairs. 

“ There comes ray little Martha, the light of the 
whole house,” said Mrs. Laurie. In a few mo- 
ments, a sweet-faced child presented herself, and 
was about entering, when Henry stepped into the 
door, and, patting a foot against each side, blocked 
up the way. Martha attem])ted to pass the rude 
boy, and, in doing so, fell over one of his feet, and 
struck her face a severe blow upon the floor. The 
loud scream of the hurt child, the clattering of 
Henry down-stairs, and the excited exclamation of 
the mother as she sprang forward, were simultane- 
ous. Mr. Laurie and Mr. Fleetw’ood came running 
up from the room below^, and arrived in time to see 
a gush of blood from the nose of Martha, as her 
mother raised her from the floor. 

‘‘ Isn’t it too much I” exclaimed Mrs. Laurie. I 
-think that it is the worst boy I ever saw in my life !” 

The application of a little cold water soon 
staunched the flow of blood, and a few kind words 
soothed the feelings of the child, who sat in he.r 


OLD maids’ children. 


85 


mother’s lap, and answered her aunt when she spoke 
to her, like a little lady, as she was. 

Where are the rest of your children ?” asked 
Mrs. Fleetwood. The gentlemen were now seated 
with the ladies. 

You’ve had a pretty fair sample of them,” re- 
plied Mr. Laurie, smiling good humouredly, ^^and 
may as well be content with that for the present. 
To say the best of them, they are about as wild a 
set of young scape-graces as ever made each other 
miserable, and their parents, too, sometimes.” 

Why, Mr. Laurie !” exclaimed his wife, who 
had not forgotten her old opinions, freely expressed, 
about the ease with which children could be govern- 
ed. I’m sure you needn’t say that. I think our 
children quite as good as otber people’s, and a little 
better than some I could name.” 

“Well, perhaps they are, and nothing to brag of 
at that,” replied Mr. Laurie. “ Children are children, 
and you can’t make any thing more out of them.” 

“But children should be made orderly and obe- 
dient,” said Mrs. Laurie, with some dignity of ex- 
pression. 

“If they can,” pleasantly returned the father 
“ So far, we, at least, have not succeeded to our 
wishes in this respect. As to order and obedience, 
they seem to be cardinal sins rather than cardinal 
virtues, at present. But I hope better things after 

a while.” 

\.-s 


86 


OLD maids’ children. 


As this was said, some one was heard tumbling 
rather than walking up-stairs, and, in a moment 
after, in bolted a boy about seven years old, crying 
out — 

Hen’ says Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood have 
come ! Have they, mom ?” 

The boy stopped short on perceiving that strangers 
were present. 

“ Yes, my son, your Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood 
are here,” said Mr. Fleetwood, reaching out his 
hand to the little fellow. Remembering Martha’s 
former rigid notions about the government of chil 
dren, he felt so much amused by what he saw, that 
he could hardly help laughing out immoderately. 

Come here,” he added, “and let me talk to you.” 

The boy went without hesitation to his uncle, 
who took him by the hand and said, with a half 
wicked glance at the mother, yet with a broad good 
humoured smile upon his face, 

“That must be a very knowing hen of yours. I 
should like to have some of her chickens.” 

“ What hen ?” asked the boy, with a serious air. 

“ Why, the hen that told you we were here.” 

“ No hen told me that.” The boy looked mysti- 
ded. 

“ Oh ! I thought you said Hen’ told you so.” 

“ No, it was Henry.” 

“ Say, no sir, my son.” Mrs. LauJ^ie’s faco WtW 
not pale, certainly, as she said this. 


OLD maids’ children. 


87 


The boy did not think it worth while to repeat 
the formality. 

Oh ! it was your brother Henry,” replied Mr. 
Fleetwood, with affected seriousness. “ I thought 
that must have been a very knowing hen.” The 
boy, and his sister who had recovered from the pain 
of her fall, laughed heartily. Now tell me your 
name?” 

^^John.” 

Say John, sir. Where are your manners ?” 
spoke up the mother, who remembered that, with all 
her sister’s imperfect management of her children, 
she had succeeded in teaching them to be very re- 
spectful in their replies to older persons, and that 
Earnest, when she last saw him, was a little gentle- 
man in his manners when an}^ one spoke to him. 

^‘'Mo-iherJ” came now ringing up the stairs, in a 
loud, screeching little voice. ^‘Mo-therJ Hen’ won’t 
let me come up.” 

I declare ! That boy is too bad ! He’s a per- 
fect torment !” said Mrs. Laurie, fretfully. “ I’m 
out of all heart with him.” 

The father stepped to the head of the stairs, and 
spoke rather sternly to the rebellious Henry. Lit- 
tle feet were soon heard pattering up, and the young- 
est of the young hopefuls made her appearance, 
and, soon after, Henry pushed his really repulsive 
face into the door and commenced grimacing at the 
other children, thereby succeeding in what he de- 


88 


OLD maids’ children. 


sired to do, viz., starting little Maggy, the youngest, 
into a whining, fretful cry, . because “Hen’ was 
making faces” at her. This cry, once commenced, 
was never known to end without the application of 
something more decided in its effects than words. 
It was in vain that the mother used every persua- 
sive, diverting and soothing means in her power: 
the crying, loud enough to drown all conversation, 
continued, until, taking the child up hurriedly in 
her arms, she bore her into another room, where 
she applied some pretty severe silencing measures, 
which had, however, the contrary effect to that de- 
sired. The child cried on, but louder than before. 
For nearly ten minutes, she sought by scolding and 
whipping to silence her, but all was in vain. It is 
doubtful, after the means used to enforce silence, 
whether the child could have stopped if she had 
tried. At last, the mother locked her in a closet, 
and came, with a flushed face and mortified feelings, 
back to the room from which she had retired with 
Maggy. 

The moment Mrs. Laurie left, her husband, with 
a word and a look, brought the three children into 
order and quietness. Henry was told, in a low 
voice, and in a tone of authority, that he never 
thought of questioning, to go up into the garret and 
remain there until he sent for him. The boy re- 
tired without the slightest hesitation. 

When Mrs. Laurie returned, Mr. Fleetwood, who 


r>[ib maids' children. 


89 


was a man of frank, free, and pleasant .nanners, 
could not resist the temptation he felt to remind her 
of the past; he, therefore, said, laughingly, 

“ You have doubtless found out, by this time, 
Martha, that old maids’ children are the best.” 

This sally had just the effect he designed it to 
have. It was an apology for the children, as it 
classed them with other real children, in contradis- 
tinction to the imaginary offspring of the unmarried, 
that are known by every one to be faultless speci- 
mens of juvenility. 

Come ! That is too bad, Mr. Fleetwood,” re- 
plied Mrs. Laurie, feeling an immediate sense of 
relief. But, I own to the error I committed be- 
fore marriage. It seemed to me the easiest thing 
in the world to manage children, when I thought 
about it, and saw where parents erred, or appeared 
to err, in their modes of government. I did not 
then know what was in children. All their per- 
verseness I laid to the account of bad management. 
Alas ! I have had some sad experiences in regard to 
my error. Still, I cannot but own that children 
are made worse by injudicious treatment, and also, 
that mine ought to be a great deal better than they 
are.” 

Like the rest of us,” returned Mr. Fleetwood, 
“you have no doubt discovered, that it is one thing 
to think about the government of children, and 
another thing to be in the midst of their disturbing 


90 


OLD maids’ children. 


sphere, and yet act as if you did not feel it. Theory 
and practice are two things. It seems, when we 
think coolly, that nothing can be easier than to 
cause the one exactly to correspond to the other. 
But whoever makes the trial, especially where the 
right government of children is concerned, will find 
it a most difficult matter. What makes the govern- 
ment of their children so hard a thing for parents, 
is the fact that the evils of the children have been 
inherited from them, and therefore the reaction of 
these evils upon themselves is the more disturbing. 
We haven’t as much patience with the faults of our 
own children, often, as other people have. They 
fret and annoy us, and take away our ability to 
speak in a proper tone and act with becoming dignity 
toward them, and thus destroy their respect for us.” 

^‘Nothing can be truer,” said Mrs. Laurie. 
stand rebuked. I am self-condemned, every day, 
on this very account. I used to think that your 
government and that of Sarah’s over your children 
very defective. But it was far better than the 
government that I have been able to exercise over 
mine. Ah me !” 

‘‘ Don’t sigh over the matter so terribly, Martha,’^ 
spoke up the husband We shall get them right 
in the end. Never give up the ship, is my motto 
in this and every thing else. But I ivouldn’t have 
our brother and sister here think for a moment 
tbat the scenes they have witnessed are enacted 


OLD MAIDS' CHILDREN. 


91 


'every day. Their visit is an occasion of some ex- 
citement to our young folks, and they had to show 
off a little. They will cool down again, and we 
shall get on pleasantly enough.” 

That is all very true,” said Mrs. Laurie, more 
cheerfully. T never saw them act quite so out- 
rageously before, when any one came in. There is 
much good in them, and you will see it before you 
leave us.” 

No doubt in the world of that,” replied Mr. 
Fleetwood; ^Hliere is good in all children, and it is 
our duty to exercise great forbearance towards their 
evils, and be careful lest, by what we do or say, we 
strengthen, rather than break them.” 

And the good that was in Mrs. Laurie’s children 
was clearly seen by Mr. and Mrs. Fleetwood during 
their stay; but, that good was, alas ! not strength- 
ened as it might have been, nor were the evils thev 
luuenti'ci ivCDt Quiescent, as lucy to a sficac 

extent nave remained, tiad the motner oeon mora 
Datioijc a.iia IV/rbcaring — had her practieo neen ar 
c*Gocl ae oci tfjaorv. 

O 

it m ejsv ror ua r,o set* oow others ouirnt to ac: 
to^a-AU their children, but very bard Tor ’j:? to atsa, 
righl towara our own 


THE MOTHER AND BOY. 


Tom, let that alone exclaimed a mother, petu- 
lantly, to a boy seven years old, who was playing 
with a tassel that hung from one of the window- 
blinds, to the imminent danger of its destruction. 

The boy did not seem to hear, but kept on finger- 
ing the tassel. 

“ Let that be, I tell you ! Must I speak a hun- 
dred times? Why don’t you mind at once?” 

The child slowly relinquished his hold of the 
tassel, and commenced running his hand up and 
down the venitian blind. 

There ! there ! Do for gracious sake let them 
blinds alone. Go ’way from the window this mo- 
ment, and try and keep your hands off of things. 
I declare ! you are the most trying child I ever 
saw.” 

Tom left the window and threw himself at full 
length into the cradle, where he commenced rocking 
himself with a force and rapidity that made every 
thing crack again. 

“ Get out of that cradle! What do you mean? 


THE M0TMEI5 AND HOY. 


93 


y 

The child really seems possessed I” And the mother 
caught him by the arm and jerked him from the 
cradle. 

Tom said nothing, but, with the most imperturba- 
ble air in the world, walked twice around the room, 
and then pushing a chair up before the dressing- 
bureau, took therefrom a bottle of hair lustral, and, 
pouring the palm of his little hand full of the liquid, 
commenced rubbing it upon his head. Twice had 
this operation been performed, and Tom was pulling 
open a drawer to get the hair-brush, when the odour 
of the oily compound reached the nostrils of the 
lad^s mother, who was sitting with her back toward 
him. Turning quickly, she saw what was going 
on. 

You fell angrily from her lips, as she dropped 
the baby in the cradle. Isn’t it too much !” she 
continued, as she swept across the room to where 
Tom was standing before the bureau-dressing-glass. 

There, sir !” and the child’s ear rang with the 
box he received. There, sir !” and the box was 
repeated. Haven’t I told you a hundred times 
not to touch that hair-oil ? J ust see what a spot of 
grease you’ve made on the carpet ! Look at your 
hands I” 

Tom looked at his hands, and, seeing them full 
of oil, clapped them quickly down upon his jacket, 
and tried to rub them clean. 

There ! stop ! mercy ! Now see your new jacket 


94 


THE MOTHER AND BOY. 


« 


that you put on this morning. Grease from top to 
bottom ! Isn’t it too bad ! I am in despair !” And 
the mother let her hands fall by her side, and her 
body drop into a chair. 

It’s no use to try,” she continued ; ‘‘ I’ll give 
up. Just see that jacket! it’s totally ruined; and 
that carpet, too. Was there ever such a trying boy I 
Go down-stairs this instant, and tell Jane to come 
up here.” 

Tom had reason to know that his mother was not 
in a mood to be trifled with, so he went off briskly 
and called Jane, who was directed to get some fuller’s 
earth and put upon the carpet where oil had been 
spilled. 

Not at all liking the atmosphere of his mother’s 
room, Tom, being once in the kitchen, felt no incli- 
nation to return. His first work there, after deli- 
vering his message to Jane, was to commence turn- 
ing the coffee-mill. 

Tommy,” said the cook, mildly, yet firmly, 
^‘you know I’ve told you that it was wrong to touch 
the coffee-mill. See here, on the floor, where you 
have scattered the coffee about, and now I must get 
a broom and sweep it up. If you do so, I can’t let 
you come down here.” 

The boy stood and looked at the cook seriously, 
while she got the broom and swept up the dirt he 
had made. 

** It’s all clean again now,” said the cook, plea- 


THE MOTHER AND BOY. 


95 


santly. ^^And you won’t do so any more, will 
you ?” 

No, I won’t touch the coffee-mill.” And, as 
Tom said this, he sidled up to the knife-box that 
stood upon the dresser, and made a dive into it with 
his hand. 

Oh, no, no, no. Tommy! that won’t do, either,” 
said the cook. “ The knives have all been cleaned, 
and they are to go on the table to eat with.” 

Then what can I play with, Margaret ?” asked 
the child, as he left the dresser. “ I want some- 
thing to play with.” 

The cook thought a moment, and then went to 
a closet and brought out a little basket filled with 
clothes-pins. As she held them in her hand, she 
said — Tommy, if you will be careful not to break 
any of these, nor scatter them about, you may have 
them to play with. But remember, now, that as 
soon as you begin to throw them around the room, 
I will put them up again.” 

Oh, no, I won’t throw them about,” said the 
little fellow, with brightening eyes, as he reached 
out for the basket of pins. 

In a little while he had a circle formed on the 
table, which he called his fort; and inside of this 
he had men, cannon, sentry-boxes, and other things 
that were suggested to his fancy. 

Where’s Thomas?” asked his mother, about the 
time he had become fairly interested in his fort 


96 


THE MOTHER AND BOY. 


I left him down in the kitchen/’ replied Jane. 

Go down and tell him to corns up here instant* 

Down went Jane. 

Come along up-stairs to your mother/’ said she. 

No, I won’t,” replied the boy. 

Very well, mister! You can do as you like; 
but your mother sent for you.” 

^^Tell mother I am playing here so good. I’m 
not in any mischief. Am I, Margaret ?” 

No, Tommy; but your mother has sent for you, 
and you had better go.” 

I don’t want to.” 

Just as you like,” said Jane, indifferently, as 
she left the kitchen and went up-stairs. 

Where’s Thomas?” was the question with which 
she was met on returning to the chamber. 

He won’t come, ma’am.” 

Go and tell him that if he doesn’t come up to 
me instantly, I will put on his night-clothes and 
shut him up in the closet.” 

The threat of the closet was generally uttered ten 
times where it was executed once; it made but little 
impression upon the child, who was all absorbed in 
his fort. 

Jane returned. In a few moments afterward, the 
quick, angry voice of the mother was heard ringing 
down the stairway. 

“ You, Tom 1 come up here this instant.” 


THE MOTHER AND BOY. 


97 


Fm not troubling any thing, mother.” 

Come up, I say !” 

Margaret says I may play with the clothes-pins 
I’m only building a fort with them.” 

Do you hear me?” 

Mother !” 

Tom ! if you don’t come to me this instant. I’ll 
almost skin you. Margaret ! take them clothes-pins 
away. Pretty playthings, indeed, for you to give 
a boy like him ! No wonder I have to get a dOzen 
new ones every two or three months.” 

Margaret now spoke. 

“ Tommy, you must go up to your mother.” 

She now took the clothes-pins and commenced 
putting them into the basket where they belonged. 
Her words and action had a more instant effect than 
all the mother’s storm of passion. The boy left the 
kitchen in tears, and went slowly up-stairs. 

Why didn’t you come when I called you? 
Say!” 

The mother seized her little boy by the arm the 
moment he came in reach of her, and dragged rather 
than led him up-stairs, uttering such exclamations 
as these by the way : 

I never saw such a child I You might as well 
talk to the wind I I’m in despair ! I’ll give up I 
Humph ! clothes-pins, indeed I Pretty playthings 
to give a child ! Every thing goes to rack and ruin • 
There!” 


98 


THE MOTHER AND BOY. 


And, as the last word was uttered, Tommy was 
thrust into his mother’s room with a force that near- 
ly threw him prostrate. 

“ Now take off them clothes, sir.” 

What for, mother? I haven’t done any thing! 
I didn’t hurt the clothes-pins; Margaret said I might 
play with them.” 

D’ye hear ? take off them clothes, I say !” 

I didn’t do any thing, mother.” 

word more, and I’ll box your ears until 
they ring for a month. Take off them clothes, I 
say I I’ll teach you to come when I send for you ! 
I’ll let you know whether I am to be minded or 
not !” 

Tommy slowly disrobed himself, while his mother, 
fretted to the point of resolution, eyed him with 
unrelenting aspect. The jacket and trousers were 
removed, and his night-clothes put on in their stead. 
Tommy all the while protesting tearfully that he 
had done nothing. 

<<Will you hush?” was all the satisfaction he 
received for his protestations. 

Now, Jane, take him up-stairs to bed ; he’s got 
to lie there all the afternoon.” 

It was then four, and the sun did not set until 
near eight o’clock. Up-stairs the poor child had to 
go, and then his mother found some quiet. Her 
babe slept soundly in the cradle, undisturbed by 
Tommy’s racket, and she enjoyed a new novel to the 


THE MOTHER AND BOY. 


99 


extent of almost entirely forgetting her lonely boy 
shut up in the chamber above. 

Where’s Tommy asked a friend, who dropped 
in about six o’clock. 

In bed,” said the mother, with a sigh. 

“What’s the matter? Is he sick?” 

“ Oh, no. I almost wish he were.” 

“ What a strange wish ! Why do you wish so ?” 

Oh, because he is like a little angel when he is 
sick — as good as he can be. I had to send him to 
bed as a punishment for disobedience. He is a hard 
child to manage; I think I never saw one just like 
him ; but, you know, obedience is every thing. It 
is our duty to require a strict regard to this in our 
children.” 

“ Certainly. If they do not obey their parents 
as children, they will not obey the laws as men.” 

“That is precisely the view I take; and I make 
it a point to require implicit obedience in my boy. 
This is my duty as a parent; but I find it hard 
work.” 

It is hard, doubtless. Still we must persevere, 
and, in patience, possessing our souls.” 

“ To be patient with a boy like mine is a hard 
task. Sometimes I feel as if I should go wild,” said 
the mother. 

“ But, under the influence of such a feeling,” re- 
marked the friend, “ what we say makes little or no 
impression. A calmly uttered word, in which there 


100 


THE MOTHER AND BOY. 


is an expression of interest in and sympathy for the 
child, does more than the sternest commands. This 
I have long since discovered. I never scold my 
children; scolding does no good, hut harm. My 
oldest boy is restless, excitable, and impulsive. If 
I were not to provide him with the means of em- 
ploying himself, or in other ways divert him, his 
hands would be on every thing in the house, and 
both he and I made unhappy.” 

‘‘ But how can you interest him ?” 

In various ways. Sometimes I read to him ; 
sometimes I set him to doing things by way of assist- 
ing me. I take him out when I can, and let him 
go with the girls when I send them on errands. I 
provide him with playthings that are suited to his 
age. In a word, I try to keep him in my mind ; 
and, therefore, find it not very difficult to meet his 
varying states. I never thrust him aside, and say 
I am too busy to attend to him, when he comes with 
a request. If I cannqt grant it, I try not to say 
‘ no,^ for that word comes too coldly upon the eager 
desire of an ardent-mi uded boy.” 

But how can you help saying ‘ no,’ if the request 
is one you cannot grant ?” 

“ Sometimes I ask if something else will not do 
as well ; and sometimes I endeavour to create a new 
interest in his mind. There are various ways in 
which it may be done, that readily suggest them- 
selves to those desirous for the good of their chil- 


THE MOTHER AND BOY 


lUl 


dren. It is affection that inspires thought. The 
love of children always brings a quick intelligence 
touching their good.^^ 

Much more was said, not needful here to repeat. 
When the friend went away, Tommy’s mother, whose 
heart convicted her of wrong to her little boy, went 
up to the room where she had sent him to spend 
four or five lonely hours as a punishment for what 
was, in reality, her own fault, and not his. Three 
hours of the weary time had already passed. She 
did not remember to have heard a sound from him, 
since she drove him away with angry words. In 
fact, she had been too deeply interested in the new 
book she was reading, to have heard any noise that 
was not of an extraordinary character. 

At the door of the chamber she stood and listened 
for a moment. All was silent within. The mother’s 
heart beat with a heavy motion. On entering, she 
found the order of the room undisturbed; not even 
a chair was out of place. Tommy was asleep on the 
bed. As his mother bent over him, she saw that 
tears were upon his cheeks and eyelids, and that the 
pillow was wet. A choking sigh struggled up from 
her bosom; she felt a rebuking consciousness of 
having wronged her child. She laid her hand upon 
his red cheek, but drew it back instantly; it was 
hot with fever. She caught up his hand ; it was 
also in a burning glow. Alarm took the place of 
grief for having wronged her boy. She tried tc 

® 0:k 


102 


THE MOTHER AND BOY. 


awaken him, but he only moaned and muttered. 
The excitement had brought on a fever. 

When the father came home and laid his hand 
upon the hot cheek of his sleeping boy, he uttered 
an exclamation of alarm, and started off instantly 
for a physician. All night the wretched mother 
watched by her sick child, unable, from fear and 
self-reproaches, to sleep. When the morning broke, 
and Thomas looked up into her face with a gleam 
of trusting affection, his fever was gone and his pulse 
was calm. The mother laid her cheek thankfully 
against that of her boy, and prayed to Heaven for 
strength to bear with him, and wisdom to guide her 
feet aright ; and as she did so, in the silence of her 
overflowing heart, the lad drew his arms around her 
neck, and, kissing her, said — Mother, I do love 
youf^ 

That tears came gushing over the mother^s face 
is no cause of wonder, nor that she returned, half 
wildly, the embrace and kiss of her child. 

Let us hope that, in her future conduct towards 
her ardent, restless boy, she may be able to control 
herself ; for then she will not find it hard to bring 
him under subjection to what is right. 


THE CHKISTMAS PARTY. 


Christmas had come round again — merry old 
Christmas, with his smiling face and wealth of gooa 
cheer ; and every preparation had been made by the 
Arlingtons for their annual Christmas party, which 
was always a gay time for the young friends of the 
family. 

Some hundreds of miles away, in a quiet New- 
England village, lived Mr. Archer,- an uncle of Mr. 
Arlington. He was a good man ; but being a minis- 
ter of the old school, and well advanced in years, he 
was strongly prejudiced against all “ fashionable 
follies,^^ as he called nearly every form of social 
recreation. Life was, in his eyes, too solemn a 
thing to be wasted in any kind of trifling. In 
preaching and praying, in pious meditation, and in 
going about to do good, much of his time was passed; 
and another portion of it was spent in reflecting 
upon and mourning over the thoughtless follies of 
the world. He had no time for pleasure-taking ; no 
heart to smile at the passing foibles or merry humours 
of his fellow-men. 


103 


104 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


Such was the Rev. Mr. Jason Archer — a gooQ 
man, but with his mind sadly warped through early 
prejudices, long confirmed. For years he had talked 
of a journey to the city where his niece, to whom 
he was much attached, resided. This purpose was 
finally carried out. It was the day before Christmas, 
when Mrs. Arlington received a letter from the old 
gentleman, announcing the fact that she might ex- 
pect to see him in a few hours, as he was about 
starting to pay her and her family the long-intended 
visit. 

Uncle Archer will be here to-morrow,’^ said 
Mrs. Arlington to her husband, as soon as she met 
him after receiving her letter. 

“ Indeed ! And so the good old gentleman has 
made a move at last 

Yes ; he^s going to eat his Christmas dinner 
with us, he says.^' 

So much the better. The pleasure of meeting 
him will increase the joy of the occasion.” 

I am not so sure of that,” replied Mrs. Arling- 
ton, looking a little serious. It would have been 
more pleasant to have received this visit at almost 
any other time in the year.” 

<< Why so ?” 

You kn6w his strong prejudices?” 

Oh, against dancing, and all that ?” 

Yes ; he thinks it a sin to dance.” 

Thmgh I do not.” 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


105 


but it will take away half my pleasure to 
see him grieved at any thing that takes place in my 
house/' 

He'll not be so weak as that." 

He thinks it sin, and will be sadly pained at its 
occurrence. Is it not possible to omit dancing for 
once ?" 

At the party to-morrow night ?" 

«Yes." 

Mr. Arlington shook his head, as he replied — 

“ Don’t think of such a thing. We will receive 
him with true kindness, because we feel it towards 
the good old man. But we must not cease to do 
what we know to ,be right, thus disappointing and 
marring the pleasure of many, out of deference to a 
mere prejudice of education in a single person. 
When we go to see him, we do not expect that any 
change will be made out of deference to our preju- 
dices or peculiar opinions; and when he comes to 
see us, he must be willing to tolerate what takes 
place in our family, even if it does not meet his full 
approval. No, no; let us not think for a moment 
of any change in affairs on this account. Uncle 
Archer hasn’t been present at a gay party nor seen 
dancing for almost half a century. It may do him 
good to witness it now. At any rate, I feel cuiious 
to see the experiment tried.’’ 

Mrs. Arlington still argued for a little yielding in 
favour of the good parson’s prejudices, but her hus- 


106 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


band would not listen to such a thing for a moment 
Every thing, he said, must go on as usual. 

A guest who comes into a family,^^ he remarked, 
‘^should always conform himself to the family order; 
then there is no reaction upon him, and all are com- 
fortable and happy. He is not felt as a thing foreign 
and incongruous, but as homogeneous. To break up 
the usual order, and to bend all to meet his personal 
prejudices and peculiarities, is only to so disturb the 
family sphere as to make it actually repellent. He 
is then felt as an unassimilated foreign body, and all 
secretly desire his removal.^’ 

But something is due to old age urged Mrs. 
Arlington. 

‘‘Yes; much. But, if age have not softened a 
man’s prejudices against a good thing in itself, I 
doubt very much if a deference to his prejudice, such 
as you propose, will in the least benefit him. Better 
let him come in contact with a happy circle, exhila- 
rated by music and dancing ; and the chances are, 
that his heart will melt in the scene rather than 
grow colder and harder. The fact is, as I think of 
it more and more, the better pleased am I that Uncle 
Archer is coming just at this time.” 

But Mrs. Arlington felt troubled about the matter. 
Early on Christmas morning, the old gentleman 
arrived, and was welcomed with sincere affection by 
every member of the family. Mr. and Mrs. Arling- 
ton had a daughter, named G-race, who was just- 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


107 


entering her eighteenth year. She was gentle and 
affectionate in disposition, and drew to the side of 
Uncle Archer in a way that touched the old man's 
feelings. He had not seen her before this, since 
she was a little girl ; and now, he could not keep 
his eyes off of her as she sat by him, or moved about 
the room in his presence. 

What a dear girl that is !" was his remark to 
her mother, many times through the day. 

She’s a good girl," would simply reply Mrs. 
Arlington, speaking almost without thought. Grace 
was a good girl ; her mother felt this, and from her 
heart her lips found utterance. 

It seemed, all through the day, that Grace could 
not do enough for the old man’s comfort. Once she 
drew him into her room, as he was passing her door, 
to show him some pictures that she had painted. 
As he sat looking at them, he noticed a small, hand- 
somely bound Bible on her table. Taking it up, he 
said — 

Do you read this, Grace ?" 

^^Oh, yes,” she replied, every day.” And 
there was such a light of goodness in her eyes, as 
she looked up into his face, that Mr. Archer felt, for 
a moment or two, as if the countenance of an angel 
was before him. 

Why do you read it ?” he continued after a 
pause. 

It teaches us the way to heaven,” said Grace. 


108 


THE CnRlSTAfAS PARTY. 


‘^And you are trying to live for heaven 

“I try to shun all evil as sin. Can I do 
more 

All the minister’s creeds, and doctrines, and con- 
fessions of faith, which he had ever considered the 
foundations upon which Christian life was to be 
built, seemed, for a moment or two, useless lum- 
/ ber before the simple creed of this loving, pure- 
hearted maiden. To seek to disturb this state of 
innocence and obedience by moody polemics, he felt, 
instinctively, to be wrong. 

“ Perhaps not,” was his half abstracted reply ; 
perhaps not. Yes, yes; shun what is evil, and the 
Lord will adjoin the good.” 

Yes, yes; she is a good girl, as her mother says,” 
was frequently repeated by Uncle Archer during the 
day, when he would think of Grace. 

Evening came, and young and old began to gather 
in the parlours. The minister was introduced to 
one and another, as they arrived, and was much 
gratified with the respect and attention shown to him 
by all. Grace soon drew around him three or four 
of her young friends, who listened to what he had 
to say with an interest that gratified his feelings. 
Nothing had been said to Grace of her uncle’s pre- 
judice against dancing; she was, therefore, no little 
surprised to see the sudden change in his manner, 
when she said to a young lady in the group around 
him — 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


109 


Come ! you must play some cotillions for us. 
We’re going to have a dance.” 

After going with the young lady to the piano, and 
opening it for her, Grace went hack to her uncle, 
whose face she found deeply clouded. 

A’n’t you well, uncle ?” she asked, affection- 
ately. 

Oh yes, child, I am well enough in body,” was 
replied. 

^^But something troubles you, uncle — what is 
it?” 

By this time a number of couples were on the 
floor, and at the moment, a young man came up to 
Grace, and said — 

Shall I have the pleasure of dancing with you 
this evening ?” 

Not in the first set,” replied Grace ; but I will 
consider myself engaged for the second, unless you 
can find a more agreeable partner.” 

^^Do you dance, then?” asked Uncle Archer, 
gravely, after the young man had turned away. 

Dance ?” Grace was in doubt whether she had 
clearly understood him. 

^^Yes, dear.” 

‘‘ Certainly I do, uncle. You don’t think there is 
harm in dancing ?” 

“I do, my child. And, I am sure that, after 
what you said about reading your Bible and trying 
to live for heaven, your admission great y surprises 

V.— 10 


no 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTF. 


me. Ileligion and dancing ! How can they have 
an affinity ?” 

Good and evil can have no affinity/’ said Grace, 
in reply to this remark. “ Evil, I have always un- 
derstood to be in a purpose to do wrong. Now, I 
can dance with a good purpose ; and, surely, then, 
dancing cannot be evil to me.” 

Dance with a good purpose ! How can you do 
that, my dear?” 

I have often danced with the sole end of con- 
tributing my share to the general enjoyment of a 
company.” 

^‘Strange enjoyment!” sighed the old parson. 

The timing of steps, and the orderly movement 
)f the body in concert with musical harmonies, often 
affects the mind with exquisite delight, uncle. I 
have enjoyed this over and over again, and have felt 
better and happier afterwards.” 

‘‘Child! child!” replied the old man; “how it 
grieves me to hear you say this.” 

“ If there is sin in dancing, uncle,” said Grace, 
seriously, “tell me wherein it lies. Look at the 
countenances of those now on the floor; dc they 
express evil or good affection ? — here, as I have been 
taught, lies the sin.” 

“ It is a foolish waste of time,” returned the old 
man ; “ a foolish waste of time ; and it is an evil 
thing to waste the precious time that God has given 
to us.” 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


Ill 


We cannot always work or read. Both mind 
and body become wearied.^^ 

Then we have time for meditation. 

“ But even thought will grow burdensome at times, 
and the mind sink into listlessness and inactivity. 
Then we need recreation, in order that we may after- 
wards both work and think better. Music and 
dancing, in which mind and body find an innocent 
delight, effect such a recreation. I know it is so in 
my case ; and I know it is so in the case of others. 
You do not say that dancing is a thing evil in 
itself?’^ 

No.^^ This was admitted rather reluctantly. 

Then if it be made to serve a good end, it is a 
good thing.’’ 

‘‘But is often made to serve evil,” said the 
minister. 

“Then it is an evil thing,” promptly answered 
Grace ; “ and so every good gift of heaven may be 
made an evil thing to those who use it for an evil 
purpose. You know it is said that a spider extracts 
poison from the same flower where the bee gets 
honey. The deadly nightshade draws life from the 
same rain and sunshine that nourishes and matures 
the wheat, from which our bread is made. It is the 
evil purpose, uncle, that makes a thing evil.” 

“ Could you pray on going to bed, after an 
evening spent in dancing?” asked the old man, 
confident that he had put a question that would 


112 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


cleany show his niece her error. To his sur- 
prise, G-race answered, with a beautiful smile on her 
face — 

Oh, yes ; and I have so prayed, many and many 
a time; not failing to return thanks for the pleasure 
I had been permitted to enjoy.^^ 

Thanks for mere carnal pleasure \” 

“All things are good that are filled with good 
affections,’^ said Grace. “We are in a natural 
world, where all pleasure and pain affect us in the 
natural degree most sensibly. We must come down, 
that we may go up. We must let our natural joy 
and gladness have free course, innocently, that they 
may he changed into a joy that is higher and 
spiritual. Is it not so, uncle ?” 

Now, the old man had not expected to find such 
a nice head on so young a body ; nor did he expect 
to be called upon to answer a question, which came 
in a form that he was not prepared either to nega- 
tive or af&rm. He had put all natural pleasures 
under the ban, as flowing from the carnal mind; 
and, therefore, evil. As to filling natural pleasures 
with spiritual life, that was a new position in the- 
ology. He had preached against natural pleasures 
as evil, and, therefore, to be abandoned by all who 
would lead a heavenly life. Before he could collect 
his thoughts for an answer satisfactory to himself, 
two or three ladies gathered around them, and he 
discreetly forebore to make any further remarks on 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


ns 


the subject. But he felt, as may be supposed, very 
uncomfortable. 

After the first set was danced, one of the young 
ladies who had been on the floor, and who had pre- 
viously been introduced to the old gentleman by 
Grace, came, with colour heightened by excitement, 
and her beautiful face in a glow of pleasure, and sat 
down by his side. Mr. Archer would have received 
her with becoming gravity, had it been in his power 
to do so ; but the smile on her face was so innocent, 
and she bent towards him so kindly and alfection- 
ately, that he could not find it in his heart to meet 
her with even a silent reproof This young lady 
was really charming his ear, when a gentleman came 
up to her, and said — 

Anna, I want you to dance with me.” 

“With pleasure,” replied the girl. “You will 
excuse me for a while, Mr. Archer,” said she, and 
she was about rising as she spoke, but the old man 
placed his hand upon her arm, and gently detained 
her. 

“ You’re not going to leave me ?” 

“ No, not if my company will give you any plea- 
sure,” replied the young girl, with a gentle smile. 
“ Please excuse me.” This she addressed to the 
person who had asked her to dance. He bowed, and 
turned away. 

“ I am glad to keep you by my side,” said Mr. 

Archer, with some seriousness in his manner. 

10 * 


114 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


I am glad to stay here/^ was promptly 
answered, my company will give you any 
pleasure. It does me good to contribute to others’ 
happiness.” 

The old man was touched by this reply, for he felt 
that it was from the heart. It sounded strangely to 
his ears from the lips of one who had just been 
whirling in the mazy dance. 

There is no real pleasure in any thing selfish,” 
he remarked. “ Yes, you say truly, it does us good 
to contribute to the happiness of others.” 

For this reason,” said Anna, I like dancing as 
a social recreation. It is a mutual pleasure. We 
give and receive enjoyment.” 

The old minister’s face grew serious. 

I have been to three or four parties,” continued 
the young girl, where dancing was excluded, under 
some strange idea that it was wrong ; and I must 
say that so much evil-speaking and censoriousness 
it has never been my lot to encounter in any com- 
pany. The time, instead of being improved as a 
season of mental and bodily recreation, was worse 
than wasted. I know that I was worse instead of 
better on returning from each of these companies, 
for I insensibly fell into the prevailing spirit.” 

^‘That was very bad, certainly,” remarked Mr. 
Archer, before whose mind arose some pictures of 
social gatherings, in which bad prevailed the very 
spirit condemned by his young companion. ^^But 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


115 


I don’ t see how you are going to make dancing a 
sovereign remedy for the evil.’^ 

^^It is not a sovereign remedy/^ was answered; 
but it is a concert of feeling and action, in which 
the mind is exhilarated, and in which a mutual 
good-will is produced. You cannot dance without 
being pleased, to a greater or less extent, with your 
partners on the floor. Often and often have I had a pre- 
judice against persons wear OS’ as we moved together 
in the dances, and I have afterwards discovered in 
them good qualities to which I was before blinded.^^ 
Uncle,’^ said Grace to the old man, just at this 
moment, bending to his ear as she spoke, and taking 
his hand in hers, — ‘-come! I want to show you 
something.’^ 

Grace drew him into the adjoining parlour, where 
another set was on the floor. Two children, her 
younger brother and sister, were in it. 

“Now, just look at Ada and Willy,” whispered 
Grace in his ear, as she brought him in view of the 
young dancers. Ada was a lovely child, and the 
old uncle’s heart had already taken her in. She 
was a graceful little dancer, and moved in the figures 
with the lightness of a fairy. It was a beautiful 
sight, and in.tl^e face of all the prejudices which 
half a century had worn into him, he felt that it 
was beautiful. As he looked upon it, he could 
keep the dimness from his eyes only by a strong 
effort. 


116 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


‘^Is there evil in that, uncle?” asked Grace, 
drawing her arm within that of the old man’s. 

“ Is it good ?” he replied. 

^^Yes; it is good,” said Grace, emphatically, as 
she lifted her eyes to his. 

Mr. Archer did not gainsay her words. He at 
least felt that it was not evil, though he could not 
admit that it was good. 

Spite of the dancing, which soon ceased to offend 
the good old man, he passed a pleasant evening. 
Perhaps, he enjoyed the Christmas party as much 
as any one there. 

Nothing was said, on the next day, by any one, 
on the subject of dancing; though Mr. Archer, 
especially, thought a great deal about the matter. 
Some ideas had come into his mind that were new 
there, and he was pondering them attentively. On 
the third day of his arrival, he had a severe attack 
of rheumatism, from which he suffered great pain, 
besides a confinement to his room for a couple of 
weeks. During that time, the untiring devotion and 
tender solicitude of Grace touched the old man’s 
heart deeply. When the pain had sufficiently abated 
to let his mind attain composure, she sought to in- 
terest him in various ways. Sometimes she would 
read to him by the hour ; sometimes she would 
entertain him with cheerful conversation ; and some- 
times she would bring in one or two of her young 
friends whom he had met at the Christmas party. 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


117 


With these, he had more than one discussion, in his 
sick room, on the subject of dancing, and the old 
minister found these gay young girls rather more 
than a match for him. During a discussion of this 
kind, Grace left the room. In her absence, one of 
her companions said to him — 

Grace is a good girl.’' 

A quick light went over the old man’s counte- 
nance ; and he replied, with evident feeling — 

^^Good? Yes; I look at her, sometimes, and 
think her almost an angel.’ 

She dances.” 

The old man sighed. 

“ She is a Christian.” 

I wish there were more such in the world,” said 
he, unhesitatingly. 

And yet she dances.” 

“ My dear child,” said Mr. x\rcher, turning with 
an affectionate smile towards his young interlocutor, 
“ don’t take such an advantage of me in the argu- 
ment.” 

“ Then it is settled,” was continued, in triumph, 
“ that if dancing is not a Christian grace, a maiden 
may dance and yet be a Christian?” 

“ God bless you, and keep you from all the evil 
of the world,” said the old man, fervently, as he 
took the young girl’s hand and pressed it between 
his own. “ It may be all right ! it may be all 
right !” 


118 


THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 


Grace came back at the moment, and he ceased 
speaking. 

From that time the venerable minister said no 
more on the subject, and it is but fair to believe that 
when he returned home he had very serious doubts 
in regard to the sin of dancing, which had once been 
as fairly held as if it had been an article in the 
Confession of Faith. 






IS SHE A LADY? 


Mrs. Tudor is a perfect lady/^ said my wife, 
Mrs. Sunderland, to me one day, after having received 
a visit from the individual she named. 

She may have the manners of a lady,” I replied, 
when abroad ; but whether she be a lady at home 
or not, is more than I can tell. It is easy to put 
on the exterior of a lady ; but to he a lady is a very 
different thing.” 

All that is true enough ; but why do you, con- 
nect such remarks with the name of Mrs. Tudor ? 
Do you know any thing to the contrary of her being 
a lady ? — a lady at home, as you say, for instance?” 

^‘No, I canH say that I do; but, somehow or 
other, I am a little inclined to be doubtful of the 
genuineness of Mrs. Tudor’s claims to being a lady. 
Once or twice I have thought that I perceived an air 
of superciliousness to persons who were considered 
inferior. This is a rigid but true test of any one’s 
claims to being either a lady or a gentleman. No true 
lady is less careful of the feelings of those below her 
than she is of those who are upon an equality.” 

119 


120 


IS SHE A LADY? 


‘‘ But you only thought you saw this/' said Mrs. 
Sunderland. 

True, and my thought may be only a thought/^ 
I returned, and unjust to Mrs. Tudor, who may be 
as much of a lady at home and under all circum- 
stances, as she appears to be when abroad. 

What she is, I have not the least doubt,^^ said 
my wife. 

I never altogether fancied this Mrs. Tudor, al- 
though Mrs. Sunderland liked her very much. 
Before we built our new house, Mrs. Tudor did not 
know us, notwithstanding the fact that our pews 
had adjoined for two or three years. But after that 
event, Mrs. Tudor found out that we had an existence, 
and became uncommonly gracious with my wife. 

Not long after I had spoken out my mind in 
regard to Mrs. Tudor, that lady, in company with 
her husband, paid us a visit one evening, and after 
sitting an hour, invited us to come around and take 
tea with them on a certain evening in the ensuing 
week. 

When the time came, as we had accepted the in- 
vitation, we went. We found about a dozen persons 
assembled, half of whom were entire strangers to us. 
Among these I soon perceived that there were two 
or three who, in the eyes of Mrs. Tudor, were a little 
superior to her other guests. On our entrance, we 
were introduced to them first, and with particular 
formality, our lady hostess pronouncing their names 


IS SHE A LADY ? 


121 


m a very distiLct manner, while her articulation of 
ours was so low that they were scarcely, if at all, 
heard. During the hour that passed before tea was 
announced, Mrs. Tudor confined her attentions almost 
exclusively to these two or three individuals, who 
were evidently persons of more consequence than the 
rest of us. So apparent was all this, that most of 
those who were in the room, instead of joining in 
the conversation, sat looking at the more favoured 
guests. 

They must be persons of some importance, I 
could not help saying to my wife in an undertone, 
in which her quick ear detected something of 
sarcasm. 

For mercy^s sake, Mr. Sunderland I” she replied, 
in a voice that only reached my own ears, don^t 
make remarks upon any of the company.’^ 

If she had said, ^‘It is not gentlemanly to do so,” 
she could not have conveyed what she wished to 
utter more distinctly than she did. 

I felt the force of her reproof, but could not resist 
the inclination I felt to reply. 

We have so good an example of what is polite 
and genteel, that it is not to be wondered if we profit 
a little.” 

“ Mr. Sunderland ! Why, will you !” My wife 
seemed distressed. 

I said no more on the subject, content with having 

let her know that I was noticing the conduct of her 
v._ii 


122 


IS SHE A LADY? 


perfect lady. I believe, if I could have seen her 
thoughts, that amoug them I would have detected 
this one among the rest ; that it was not exactly fair 
and gentlemanly in me to remind her so promptly 
of the error she had probably committed in her 
estimate of Mrs. Tudor’s character. 

Fully absorbed as she was in showing attentions 
to her more favoured guests, Mrs. Tudor did not 
perceive the cold, uncomfortable, unsocial feeling 
that had crept over the rest of her company. 

Tea was at last announced. I felt relieved at this, 
and so, I perceived, did most of those around me. 
At the tea-table I expected to find Mrs. Tudor more 
general in her attentions. But no. These favoured 

ones were served first, and Mrs. , will you have 

this?” and ‘^Mrs. , will you have that?” were 

almost exclusively confined to three persons at the 
table. Mr. Tudor, I remarked, noticed this, for he 
exerted himself in order to make all the rest feel at 
ease, which he succeeded in doing to some extent. 

Waiting upon the table was a female domestic, a 
young girl of good manners and appearance. To 
her Mrs. Tudor uniformly spoke in a way that must 
have been felt as peculiarly disagreeable. The 
blandest smile, and the most winning expression of 
voice, would instantly change, when Lucy was ad- 
dressed, to a cold, supercilious look, and an under- 
tone of command. Several times I saw the blood 
mount to the girl’s forehead, as a word or tone more 


IS SHE A LADYy 


V2S 

marked and offensive than usual would be given so 
loudly as to be perceived by all. Once or twice, at 
such times, I could not resist a glance at Mrs. Sun- 
derland, which was generally met with a slight, 
rebuking contraction of her brow. 

Through the efforts of Mr. Tudor, who certainly 
did his part well, the tea-table party was a good 
deal more social than had been the individuals com- 
posing it while in the parlour. The favoured guests, 
notwithstanding the incense offered them by our 
hostess, appeared in no way to esteem themselves as 
better than the rest, and, as soon as opportunity was 
afforded them, tried to be at home with every one. 

Once more in the parlours, and arranged there by 
a kind of social crystallization, I perceived that Mrs. 
Tudor was sitting between two of the ladies who 
were considered by her worthy of the most marked 
attention. There she sat during nearly the whole 
of the evening, except when refreshments were in- 
troduced, when she accompanied Lucy round the 
room, occasionally speaking to her in a tone of offen- 
sive command or cutting rebuke. 

For one, I was glad when the time came to go 
home, and I rather think that all present were as 
much relieved, in getting away, as I was. 

What is your opinion now said 1, triumph- 
antly, to Mrs. Sunderland, the moment we were in 
the street. 

My opinion,’^ she replied, a little sharply, is, 


124 


IS SHE A LADY? 


that you did not act, in several instances, this 
evening, like a gentleman V’ 

“ I did not \” I spoke with affected surprise 
onl’^ •. for I thought I knew what it was she meant. 

No, I am sorry to say that you did not. Nothing 
could have been more improper than the notice you 
took of what was passing. A true gentlemanly 
spirit would have led you to look away from, rather 
than at the weakness of our hostess.^' 

Look away from it, Mrs. Sunderland ! How 
could I do that, pray ? It was before my eyes all 
the'time.’^ 

You ought to have shut your eyes, then.’^ 

Nonsense.’’ 

^‘Very far from it, Mr. Sunderland! You are 
ready enough to see the faults of other people !” — (in 
this, I must confess, my wife did not err very much) 

■ — but quite willing to shut your eyes to your own. 
Now, I think you acted just as bad as Mrs. Tudor; 
and, in fact, worse.” 

Worse! You are complimentary, Mrs. Sun- 
derland.” 

I can’t help it if I am. Mrs. Tudor was led 
by her weakness to conduct herself in an unlady-like 
manner; but you, with her example before your 
eyes, and in a mood to reflect, permitted yourself to 
remark upon her conduct in a way calculated to give 
pain.” 

In the name of wonder, what are you driving 


IS SHE A LADY? 


125 


ttt, Mrs. Sunderland ? No one but you heard any 
remark I made.’^ 

I wish I could think so.^^ 

Who, besides yourself, heard what I said 
Mr. Tudor.'' 

Impossible !" 

He was sitting very near us when you so far 
forgot yourself as to notice, verbally, what was pass- 
ing, and I am well satisfied, either heard distinctly 
what was said, or enough to enable him to under- 
stand the nature of all you said." 

“ You are surely mistaken," said I, feeling a good 
deal mortified, and perceiving much more clearly 
than I did before the nature of my offence against 
good manners and propriety of conduct. 

“I wish I were. But Lfear I am not. I know 
that Mr. Tudor looked around toward you suddenly, 
and I noticed that he was much more particular after- 
ward in his attentions to the rest of the company. 
At table, you may have yourself remarked this." 
Yes, I noticed it." 

“ And yet, even at the table, when he was doing 
his best, you again hurt his feelings." 

«Me !" 

Yes, you. When Mrs. Tudor spoke harshly to 
Lucy, or did something or other that you thought 
out of the way, you must look your sarcasm at me, 
notwithstanding the eyes of her husband were upon 
you." 


11 * 


126 


IS SHE A LADY? 


^^But he didn’t see me, then.” 

Yes, but he did. I saw him looking directly 
at you.” 

^^Oh, no! it cannot be.” I was unwilling to 
believe this. 

I wish it were not so for my husband’s sake,” 
returned Mrs. Sunderland. But the evidence of 
my senses I generally find it necessary to credit.” 

I must own that I felt considerably cut up, or cut 
down, whichever is the most mortifying state to be 
in. To look and whisper my censure in company, I 
had thought no great harm; but now that I had 
found I had been discovered in the act, I had a 
mortifying sense of its impropriety. 

‘^Well, anyhow,” said I, rallying myself, and 
speaking with some ligjjitness of tone, it is clear 
that Mrs. Tudor is no lady, for all you thought her 
such a pattern-card of gentility.” 

And I have not the least doubt,” retorted my 
wife, that it is equally clear to Mr. Tudor that you 
are no gentleman. So, on that score, the account 
stands fairly balanced between the two families.” 
This was a pretty hard hit; and I felt a little 
riled up,” as the Yankees say, but I concluded 
that the uttering of a few sharp sayings to my wife, 
under the circumstances, would not prove my claim 
to being a gentleman, especially against the facts of 
the case ; so I cooled down, and walked home rather 
silently, and in not the best humour with myself. 


rs SHE A 7.ADY'/ 


On the next morning, I took up a little book from 
my wife's bureau, and sat down to look over it while 
waiting for the breakfast bell. It was a book of 
aphorisms, and I opened at once to a page where a 
leaf was turned down. A slight dot with a pencil 
directed my eyes to a particular line, which read — 
He who lives in a glass house shouldn’t throw 
stones.” 

I am not sure that Mrs. Sunderland turned down 
that leaf in the book, and marked the sentiment for 
ray especial benefit; though I strongly suspected 
her. At any rate, I deemed it best not to ask the 
question. 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


The weeping mother bent over the beautiful form 
of innocent childhood — beautiful still, though its 
animating spirit had fled — and kissed the pale cheek 
of her dear departed one. When she lifted her head, 
a tear glistened on the cold brow of the babe. Then 
the father looked his last look, and, with an effort, 
controlled the emotion that wellnigh mastered him. 
The sisters came next, with audible sobs, and cheeks 
suffused with tears. A moment or two they gazed 
upon the expressionless face of their dear little play- 
fellow, and then the coffin lid was shut down, while 
each one present experienced a momentary feeling 
of suffocation. 

As the funeral procession came out of the door, 
and the family passed slowly across the pavement to 
the carriages, a few gossiping neighbours — such as, 
with no particular acquaintance with the principal 
members of a household, know all about the internal 
management of every dwelling in the square — as- 
sembled close by, and thus discoursed of the events 

connected with the burying. 

128 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


129 


^^Poor Mrs. Condy/^ said one, ^^how can she bear 
the loss of that sweet little fellow 

Other people have lost children as well as 
she,’^ remarked a sour-looking dame. Eich people, 
thank heaven ! have to feel as well as we poor 
folks.’' 

No one seemed disposed to reply to this; and 
there was a momentary silence. 

“ They’ve got up mourning mighty quick,” said 
a third speaker. Little Yf illie only died yesterday 
morning.” 

It’s most all borrowed, I suppose,” responded a 
fourth. 

Hardly,” said the other. 

Yes, hut I know that it is, though,” added the 
individual who made the allegation of borrowing; 
because, you see, Lucy, the chambermaid, told me 
last night, that Mrs. Condy had sent her to borrow 
her sister’s black bombazine, and that the girls were 
all hard enough put to it to know where to get 
something decent to attend the funeral in.” 

No doubt they thought more about mourning 
dresses, than they did about the dead child,” re- 
marked the cynic of the group. 

It’s a shame, Mrs. Grrime, for you to talk in 
that way about any one,” replied the woman who 
had first spoken. 

‘^It’s the truth, Mrs. Myers,” retorted Mrs. 
Grime. “By their works ye shall know them. 


130 


GOING INTO MOURNING 


You needn’t tell me about people being so dreadfui 
sorry at tbe loss of friends when they can make 
such a to-do about getting black to wear. These 
bombazine dresses and long black veils are truly 
enough called mourning — they are an excellent coun- 
terfeit, and deceive one half of the world. Ah, me I 
If all the money that was spent buying in mourning 
was given to the poor, there would be less misery in 
the world by a great deal.” 

And while the little group, attracted by the so- 
lemn pageant, thus exercised the privilege of inde- 
pendent thought and free discussion, carriage after 
carriage was filled and moved off, and soon the whole 
passed out of sight. 

It was near the hour of twilight when the afliicted 
family returned, and after partaking of supper, spa- 
ringly, and in silence, the different members retired 
to their chambers, and at an early hour sought 
relief to their troubled thoughts in sleep. 

On the next morning, during the breakfast hour, 
Mrs. Condy broke the oppressive silence by asking 
of her husband the sum of fifty dollars. 

What for, Sarah ?” said Mr. Condy, looking 
into her face with an expression of grave inquiry. 

It’s the middle of the week now, you know, and 
therefore no time is to be lost in getting mourning. 
At any rate, it will be as much as a bargain to get 
di-esses made by Sunday. Jane and Mary will have 
to go out this morning and buy the goods.” 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


131 


Mr. Condy did not immediately reply, but seemed 
lost in deep and somewhat painful thought. At 
length, he said, looking his wife steadily in the face, 
but with a kind expression on his countenance — 

Sarah, black dresses and an outside imposing 
show of mourning cannot make us any the more 
sorry for the loss of our dear little one,’’ and his 
voice gave way and slightly trembled at the last word, 
and the moisture dimmed his eyes. 

Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and 
unfeeling not to put on mourning,” said his wife in 
an earnest voice, for the idea of non-conformity to 
the custom of society, so suddenly presented to her 
mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching 
sorrow awakened by the loss of her youngest born 
and dearest. How can you think of such a thing ?” 

Why, father, it would never do in the world,” 
added the eldest daughter, Jane. “I should feel 
condemned as long as I lived, if I were to neglect so 
binding a duty.” 

And what would people say asked Mary, 
whose simple mind perceived at once the strongest 
motive that operated in favour of the mourning gar- 
ments. 

I don’t see, Mary,” replied Mr. Condy, that 
other people have any thing at all to do in this mat- 
ter. We know our grief to be real, and need no 
artificial incitements to keep it alive. Black gar- 
ments cannot add to our sorrow.” 


132 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


But Mrs. Condy shook her head, and the daugh* 
ters shook their heads, and the end of the matter 
was, Mr. Condy^s purse-strings were loosened, and 
the required amount of money handed over. 

After thinking a good deal about the matter, Mary 
suggested, about an hour after breakfast, that it would 
not look well for her and Jane to be seen shopping, 
and Willie only buried the day before ; and it was 
agreed to send for Ellen Maynard, who always sewed 
in the family when there was much to do, and get 
her to make the purchases. This determined, Lucy 
was despatched for Ellen. 

The reader will transfer his mental vision to a 
small but neat and comfortable room in another part 
of the town. The inmates are two. One, with a 
pale, thin face, and large bright eyes, reclines upon 
a bed. The other is seated by a window, sewing. 

I think I will try to sit up a little, Ellen,^' said 
the former, raising herself up with an effort. 

I wouldn’t, if I were you, Margaret,” replied 
the other, dropping her work and coming to the bed- 
side. “ You had better keep still, or that distressing 
cough may come back again.” 

“ Indeed, sister,” returned the invalid, I feel so 
restless that it is almost impossible to lie here. Let me 
sit up a little while, and I am sure I shall feel better.” 

Ellen did not oppose her further, but assisted her 
to a large rocking-chair, and, after placing a pillow 
at her back, resumed her work. 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


133 


1 can’t help thinking of Mrs. Condy’s little 
Willie/’ said Ellen, after a pause. ^^Dear little 
fellow ! How much they must all feel his loss.” 

‘^He is better off, though,” remarked the sister ; 
but even that idea could not keep her eyes from 
glistening. The thought of death always referred 
itself to her own near approach to the thick shadows 
and the dark valley. 

“ Yes, he is with the angels,” was the brief re- 
sponse of Ellen. 

Just at that moment the door opened, and Mrs. 
Condy’s chambermaid entered. 

Good morning, Lucy, how do you do?” said Ellen, 
rising. “ How is Mrs. Condy and all the family?” 

They are very well. Miss Ellen,” replied Lucy. 

Mrs. Condy wants you to come there this morning 
and go and buy the mourning for the family. And 
then they want you to come and sew all this week, 
and part of next, too.” 

Ellen glanced at her sister, involuntarily, and then 
said — 

I am afraid, Lucy, that I can’t go. Margaret 
is very poorly, and I don’t see how I can possibly 
leave her.” 

0 yes, you can go, • Ellen,” said Margaret. 

You can fix me what I want, and come home every 
night. I’ll do well enough.” 

Ellen paused a few moments, and then turning to 
Lucy, said — 

V.— 12 


134 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


Tell Mrs. Condy that 1 will come round in the 
course of half an hour.’^ 

Lucy went away, and Ellen, after sitting irresolute 
for some minutes, said — 

^‘ I don’t think, sister, that I can do any thing 
more for Mrs. Condy than her shopping. I wouldn’t 
like to leave you alone. You know how bad your 
cough is sometimes.” 

I’ll do well enough through the day, Ellen,” 
replied Margaret, though her feeble voice and lan- 
guid manner told too plainly that she could not do 
very well at any time. You know that our rent 
will be due in two weeks, and that you haven’t yet 
got enough to pay it.” 

That is very true,” said Ellen, somewhat sadly. 

Anyhow, I’ll go to Mrs. Condy’s, and will think 
about the matter.” 

After dressing herself, Ellen insisted that her 
sister should lie down. She then placed a small 
table close to the bed, upon which was set a few 
articles of food, and a vial of cough medicine. 
After charging Margaret to keep very quiet, and to 
try to sleep, she turned upon her a look of deep and 
yearning a. ’lection, and then hurried away. 

The sighc of Ellen, and the necessary allusion to 
the recent afflicting loss, caused the tears of the 
mother and sisters to flow afresh. But these were 
soon dried up, and so much were the minds of each 
interested in the idea of the mourning dresses, and 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


135 


in the necessary directions to be given, that few 
traces of the real affliction which had wrung their 
hearts remained, for the time, perceptible. The 
orders received by Ellen were promptly filled at the 
store where the family usually purchased their dry- 
goods, and the various articles sent home. The 
bundles arrived about the same time that Ellen re- 
turned. Then came a careful examination of the 
shades of colour and quality of the goods. These 
proving satisfactory, Jane said — 

And now, Ellen, mother^s dress, and Mary^s, 
and mine must be done this week. We’ll all help 
you. Mary and I can make the skirts and bind 
cord for you, and do a good deal on the dresses. 
You can get them done, easily enough ?” 

Indeed, Miss Jane,” replied Ellen, and her 
voice was not steady, I hardly know what to say. 
Sister is worse than she has ever been j and I don’t 
see how I can leave her alone. She coughs terribly : 
and is so weak, that she can only sit up a little while 
She has failed very fast within a week.” 

But you know this is a case particularly press- 
ing,” said Mrs. Condy. There seems to be no 
help for it. There is no one we can get but you, 
now ; and you know we give you all our sewing, 
and depend on you. Lucy says that Margaret is 
willing to have you come, and says that she can get 
on very well.” 

Ellen paused a moment or two, and then re- 


186 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


plied, with an expression of sadness in her voice — 
I will make the dresses for you, Mrs. Condy, 
but you must all help me as much as you can, so 
that I can get home every evening. It won’t do to 
let Margaret be alone all night, for her cough is 
much worse in the evening, and before day in the 
morning.” 

Neither Mrs. Condy nor her daughters replied to 
this. Mentally, they deemed it impossible for Ellen 
to go home at night. But they did not wish to say 
so. It was Wednesday, and all the afternoon was 
consumed in cutting, fitting, and basting the dresses. 
Night came, and Ellen, after tea, prepared to go 
home. Some slight objection was made; but she 
was resolute. It was some time after dark when 
she came in sight of her chamber window. It 
showed that there was no light within. Instantly 
she sprang forward, and soon bounded up the stairs 
and into the room. 

Margaret ! — How are you, Margaret ?” she said, 
pressing up to the bedside, and putting her hand 
upon the forehead of her sister. It was cold and 
clammy. A violent fit of coughing prevented a 
reply. A light was obtained in a few minutes, and 
showed the countenance of Margaret slightly dis- 
torted from difficult breathing, and her forehead 
perceptibly corrugated. 

You are worse, sister !” exclaimed Ellen, kissing 
her damp forehead. 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


137 


^^No, not much worse. My cough is only a little 
troublesome,” was the quiet reply. 

You have had no supper yet, of course,” said 
Ellen. A cup of hot tea will do you good.” 

This was soon prepared, and Margaret eat with a 
keen appetite. After tea, she was much better. 
The cold perspiration ceased, and her skin became 
dry and warm. A brief conversation passed be- 
tween the sisters, when Margaret fell off into a 
pleasant slumber. On the next morning, with much 
reluctance and many misgivings as to whetlier it 
were right to leave her sister alone, Ellen went to 
Mrs. Condy's. Before going, however, she asked 
the kind neighbour who lived below, to look in oc- 
casionally, and to see that Margaret had a good cup 
of tea for dinner. This was promised, and she felt 
lighter at heart. 

Ellen worked hard through that day ; but when 
night came, with all the help she had received, the 
first dress was not finished. Unless one dress were 
finished each day, the three could not be done by 
Sunday; and this not being the case on the first 
day, how could she go home that night? for if she 
worked a few hours longer, the garment would bo 
ready for the wearer. 

“ I must run home a little while,” said she, men- 
tally, and then come back again. But how can I 
leave Margaret all night ? She may die !” The 
thought caused her to shudder. 


138 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


At length she said to Mrs. Condy — 

“ I can’t leave sister all night, madam. But 1 
can take your dress home with me, and by sitting 
up late, I can easily finish it. You will have no 
objection to my doing this, I hope 

Mrs. Condy paused a moment, for she did feel an 
objection to this being done; but humanity pre- 
vailed, and she consented. This relieved Ellen’s 
mind very greatly, and she bundled up the dress, 
and hurried away with it. Margaret appeared more 
feeble than she was in the morning ; and her cough 
was very troublesome. It was nearly twelve o’clock 
when the last stitch was taken in Mrs. Condy’ s dress. 
And then Ellen retired to her bed. But it was a 
long time before she could sleep. The nervous ex- 
citement, induced by protracted labour and great 
anxiety of mind, drove slumber from her eyelids 
for many hours. Towards morning she fell into a 
troubled sleep, and awoke at daylight unrefreshed. 

This day was Friday, and Jane’s dress came next 
in turn. Ellen applied herself with even greater 
assiduity than she had used on the preceding day ; 
but, as Jane’s dress required more trimming, ^nd 
less assistance was given her on it, the progress she 
made towards its completion was in no way promis- 
ing. After dinner her head began to ache, and 
continued its throbbing, almost blinding pain, until 
the evening twilight began to fall, and the darkness 
compelled her to suspend her work. 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


139 


^^Why, Ellen, Janets dress isn’t nigh done,” said 
Mary, in tones of surprise, on coming into the room, 
at the moment Ellen laid the garment aside. 

“ No, but ril finish it to-night,” replied Ellen. 

Why, it’ll take you pretty much all night to 
finish this,” she said, lifting and examining her 
sister’s dress. How in the world did you get so 
behindhand, Ellen ?” 

“ This is a harder dress to make than your mo- 
ther’s,” replied Ellen; ‘^and besides having had less 
help on it, my head has ached very badly all the 
afternoon.” 

Without seeming to notice the last reason given, 
Mary said — 

Well, if you can j^ossihli/ get it done to-night, 
Ellen, you must do so. It would never answer in 
the world not to have all the dresses done by to- 
morrow night.” 

will have it done,” was the brief reply, made 
in a low tone. 

Jane’s dress was taken home that night, un- 
finished by full six or seven hours’ work. As Ellen 
had feared, she found Margaret suffering much from 
her cough. After preparing some food for her 
sister, whose appetite still remained good, she drank 
a cup of tea, and then sat down to work upon the 
mourning garment.. Towards midnight, Margaret, 
who had fallen asleep early in the evening, began 
to grow restless, and to moan as if in pain. Every 


14U 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


now ajid then, Ellen would pause in her work and 
look towards the bed, with an anxious countenance j 
and once or twice she got up, and stood over her 
sister ; but she did not awake. It was three o'clock 
when the last stitch was taken, and then Margaret’s 
cough had awakened her, and she seemed to suflfer 
so much from that and from difi&cult breathing, that 
Ellen, even after lying down, did not go to sleep 
for an hour. It was long after sunrise when she 
awoke. 

Must you go to-day, too ?” inquired Margaret, 
looking into her sister’s face anxiously, on seeing 
her, after the hastily prepared breakfast had been 
eaten, take up her bonnet and shawl. 

“ Yes, Margaret, I must go to-day. There is 
one more dress to be made, and that must be done. 
But after to-day, I won’t go out anywhere again 
until you are better.” 

I don’t think I shall ever be better again, Ellen,” 
said the sick girl. ‘‘ I am getting so weak j and I 
feel just as if I shouldn’t stay here but a little 
while. You don’t know how strange I feel some- 
times. Oh, I wish you didn’t have to go out to-day !”• 
And she looked so earnestly into the face of her 
sister, that the tears sprung into Ellen’s eyes. 

If I can persuade them to put this last dress 
off until next week, and then get some one else to 
make it, I will,” said the sister : but if I can’t, 
Margaret, try and keep up your spirits. I’ll vk 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


141 


Mrs, Ryland, down-staiis, to come and sit with you a 
little while at a time through the day; and so if I can’t 
get off, you won’t be altogether without company.” 

I wish you would, sister, for I feel so lonesome 
sometimes,” replied Margaret, hiournfully. 

Mrs. Ryland consented, for she was a kind-hearted 
woaiaii, and liked the sisters, and Ellen hurried 
away to Mrs. Condy’s. 

--^‘You are very late this morning, ain’t you?” 
said Mary Condy, as Ellen entered with Jane’s 
finished dress. 

‘‘ I am a little late. Miss Mary, but I sat up until 
three o’clock this morning, and overslept myself in 
consequence.” 

Well, you’ll finish my dress to-day, of course?” 

Really, Miss Mary, I hardly know what to say 
about it. Sister is so very poorly, that I am almost 
afraid to leave her alone. Can’t you in any way 
put yours off until next week ? I have been up 
nearly all night for two nights, and feel very unwell 
this morning.” And certainly her pale cheeks, 
sunken eyes, and haggard countenance fully con- 
firmed her statement. 

will be impossible, Ellen,” was Mary’s prompt 
and positive response. I must go to church to- 
morrow, and cannot, of course, go out, without my 
black dress.” 

With a sigh, Ellen sat down and ]-esumed her 
needle. After a while she said — 


14i! GOING INTO MOURNING. 

‘^Miss Mary, I cannot finish your dress, unless 
you and your sister help me a good deal.^' 

Oh, we’ll do that, of course,” replied Mary, get- 
ting up and leaving the room. 

It was nearly eleven o’clock before Mary thought 
of helping Ellen any, and then two or three yo\ing 
ladies came in to pay a visit of condolence, and pre- 
vented her. Tears were shed at first; and thoD 
gradually a more cheerful tone of feeling succeeded 
and so much interested were the young ladies in 
each other’s company, that the moments passed 
rapidly away, and advanced the time near on to the 
dinner hour. It was full three o’clock before Mary 
and Jane sat themselves down to help Ellen. The 
afternoon seemed almost to fly away, and when it 
was nightfall, the dress was not half finished. 

“ Will it be possible to get it done to-night ?” 
asked Mrs. Condy. 

‘^It will be hard work, madam,” said Ellen, 
whose heart was with her sister. 

Oh, it can be finished,” said Mary, if we all 
work hard for two or three hours. The fact is, it 
must be done. I wouldn’t miss having it for the 
world.” 

With a sigh, Ellen turned again to- her work ; 
though feeble nature was wellnigh sinking under 
the task forced upon her. It was past eleven o’clock 
when the dress was finished, and Ellen prepared to 
go home to her sister. 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


143 


But you are not going home to-night said 
Mr. Condy, who was now present. 

‘‘ 0 yeS; sir. I haven’t seen sister since morning, 
and she’s very ill.” 

“ What is the matter with your sister ?” asked 
Mr. Condy, in a kind tone. 

I’m afraid she’s got the consump — ” It was 
the first time Ellen had attempted to utter the word, 
and the sound, even though the whole of it remained 
unspoken, broke down her feelings, and she burst 
into tears. 

Instinctively, Mr. Condy reached for his hat and 
cane, and as* he saw Ellen recover, by a strong effort, 
her self-possession, he said — 

“It is too late for you to go home alone, Ellen, 
and as we cannot ask you, under the circumstances, 
to stay all night, I will go with you.” 

Ellen looked her gratitude, for she was really 
afraid to go into the street alone at that late hour. 
As they walked along, Mr. Condy, by many ques- 
tions, ascertained that Ellen had been almost com- 
pelled to work day and night to make up mourning 
garments for his family, and to absent herself from 
her sick sister, while she needed her most careful 
attention. Arrived at her humble dwelling, his be- 
nevolent feelings prompted him to ascertain truly 
the condition of Margaret, for his heart misgave 
him that her end was very nigh. 

On entering the chamber, they found Mrs. Ky- 


144 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


land, the neighbour who lived below, supporting 
Margaret in the bed, who was gasping for breath 
as. if every moment in fear of suffocation. Ellen 
sprung forward with a sudden exclamation, and, 
taking Mrs. Kyland’s place, let the head of her sister 
fall gently upon her bosom. Mr. Condy looked on 
for a moment, and then hastily retired. As soon 
as he reached home, he despatched a servant for 
the family physician, with a special request to have 
him visit Ellen’s sister immediately. He then went 
into his wife’s chamber, where the daughters, with 
their mother, were engaged in looking over their 
new mourning apparel. 

I’m afraid,” said he, that you have uninten- 
tionally been guilty of a great wrong.” 

“ How so ?” asked Mrs. Condy, looking up with 
sudden surprise. 

In keeping Ellen here so late from her sister, 
who is, I fear, at this moment dying.'’ 

Is it possible !” exclaimed the mother and 
daughters with looks of alarm. 

“ It is, I fear, too true. But now, all that can be 
done is to try and make some return. I want you, 
Mary, and your mother, to put on your bonnets and 
shawls and go with me. Something may yet bo 
done for poor Margaret. I have already sent for 
the doctor.” 

On the ipstant Mrs. Condy and Mary prepared 
themselves^ and the former put into a small basket 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


145 


some sugar and a bottle of wine, and handed it to 
her husband, who accompanied them, at that late 
hour, to the dwelling of the two sisters. On enter- 
ing the chamber, they found no one present but Ellen 
and Margaret. The latter still reclined with her 
head on her sister^s bosom, and seemed to have fallen 
into a gentle slumber, so quiet did she lay. Ellen 
looked up on the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Condy, 
with Mary ; and they saw that her eyes were filled 
with tears, and that two large drops stood upon her 
cheeks. She made a motion for them to be seated, 
but did not rise from her place on the bed, nor stir 
by the least movement of her body the still sleeper 
who leaned upon her breast. For nearly fifteen 
minutes, the most profound silence reigned through- 
out the chamber. The visitors understood the whole 
scene, and almost held their breaths, lest even the 
respiration, that to them seemed audible, should 
disturb the repose of the invalid. At the end of 
this time the physician entered, and broke the op- 
pressive stillness. But neither his voice nor his 
step, nor the answers and explanations which neces- 
sarily took place, restored Margaret to apparent 
consciousness. After feeling her pulse for some 
time, he said — 

It will not be necessary to disturb her while 
she sleeps ; but if she becomes restless,'a little wine 
may be given. In the morning I will see her early/^ 
and he made a movement to go. 

V.— 13 


146 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


Doctor,” said Ellen, looking him eagerly in the 
face, tell me truly — is she not dying ?” 

For a moment the physician looked upon the 
earnest, tearful girl, and read in her countenance 
that hope and fear held there a painful struggle. 

While there is life, there is hope,” he replied 
briefly. 

“ Tell me the truth, doctor, I can bear it,” she 
urged appealingly. If my sister is going to die, I 
wish to know it.” 

I have seen many recover who appeared nearer 
to death than she is,” he replied, evasively. ‘‘ As I 
have just said, where there is life, there is hope.” 

Ellen turned from him, evidently disappointed at 
the answer, and the doctor went down-stairs, accom- 
panied by Mr. Condy. The two remained some 
minutes in conversation below, and when the latter 
returned he found his wife and daughter standing 
by the bedside, and Margaret exhibiting many signs 
of restlessness. She kept rolling her head upon 
the pillow, and throwing her hands about uneasily. 
In a few minutes she began to moan and mutter in- 
coherently. After a little while her eyes flew sud- 
denly open, and she pronounced the name of Ellen 
quickly. 

I am here, Margaret,” replied the sister, be nding 
over her. • 

“ Oh, Ellen, why did you stay away so long ?” she 
said, looking up into her face half reproachfully, and 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


w 


seeming not to observe the presence of others. 
was so lonesome all day ; and then at night I waited 
and waited, and you didn’t come home ! You won’t 
go away any more — will you, Ellen ?” 

“ No — no, sister, I won’t leave you again,” said 
Ellen, soothingly, her tears starting afresh. 

The words of Margaret smote upon the heart of 
Mary, whose great eagerness to get the mourning 
dress done, so that she could go out on Sunday, had 
been the cause of Ellen’s long detention from her 
sick sister. She hastily turned away from the bed, 
and seated herself by the window. As she sat 
there, the image of her baby-brother came up vividly 
before her mind, and with it the feeling of desola- 
tion which the loss of a dear one always occasions. 
And with this painful emotion of gi’ief, there arose 
in her mind a distinct consciousness that, since hei 
thoughts had become interested in the getting and 
making up of her mourning dress, she had felt but 
little of the keen sorrow that had at first overwhelmed 
her, and that now came back upon her mind like a 
flood. As she sat thus in silent communion with ' 
•lierself, she was enabled to perceive that, in her own 
mind, there had been much less of a desire to com- 
memorate the death of her brother, in putting on 
mourning, than to appear before others to be deeply 
affected with grief. She saw that the black gar- 
ments were not to remind herself of, the dear de- 
parted one, but to show to others that the babe was 


148 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


Btill iemembered and still mourned. In her present 
state of keen perception of interior and true mo* 
tiveS; she felt deeply humbled, and inwardly re- 
solved that, on the morrow, she would not go out 
for the too vain purpose of displaying her mourning 
apparel. Just as this resolution became fixed in her 
mind, a sudden movement at the bedside arrested 
her attention, and she again joined the group there. 

Her heart throbbed with a sudden and quicker pul- 
sation, as her eye fell upon the face of Margaret. A 
great change had passed upon it } death had placed 
his sign there, and no eye could misunderstand its 
import. Rapidly now did the work of dissolution 
go on, and just as the day dawned, Margaret sank 
quietly away into that deep sleep that knows no 
earthly waking. 

After rendering all such offices as were required, 
Mrs. Condy and Mary went home, the latter pro- 
mising Ellen that she would return and remain with 
her through the day. At the breakfast table, Mr. 
Condy so directed the conversation as to giv5 the 
solemn event they had been called to witness its 
true impression upon the minds of his family. Be- 
fore the meal closed, it was lesolved that Jane and 
Mary should go to the humble dwelling of Ellen, 
and remain with her through the day; and that 
after the funeral, the expense of which Mr. Condy 
said he would bear, Ellen should be offered aperma* 
nent home. 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


149 


The funeral took place on Monday, and was at- 
tended by Mr. Condy’s family. On the next day Mrs. 
Condy called on Ellen, and invited her to come 
home with her, and to remain there. The offer was 
thankfully accepted. 

During the day, and while Ellen, assisted by 
Jane and Mary, was at work on black dresses for 
the younger children, Mr. and Mrs. Condy came into 
the room : the latter had a piece of bombazine in 
her hand. 

Here is a dress for you, Ellen,’’ she said, hand- 
ing her the piece of bombazine. 

Ellen looked up with a sudden expression of sur- 
prise ; her face flushed an instant, and then grew 
pale. 

You will want a black dress, Ellen.” resumed 
Mrs. Condy, ^^and I have bought you one.” 

I do not wish to put on black,” said she, with a 
slightly embarrassed look and an effort to smile, while 
her voice trembled and was hardly audible. 

‘‘ And why not, Ellen ?” urged Mrs. Condy. 

I never liked black,” she replied evasively. 

And, anyhow, it would do no good,” she added 
somewhat mournfully, as if the former reason struck 
her on the instant as being an insufficient one. 

No, child, it wouldn’t do any good,” said Mr. 
Condy, tenderly and with emotion. “ And if you 
don’t care about having it, don’t take it.” 

Mrs. Condy laid the proffered dress aside, and 

isi- 


150 


GOING INTO MOURNING. 


Ellen again bent silently over her work. The hearts 
of all present were touched by her simple and true 
remark, that it would do no good/’ and each one 
respected her the more, that She shunned all exterior 
manifestation of the real sorrow that they knew 
oppressed her spirits. And never did they array 
themselves in their sombre weeds, that the thought 
of Ellen’s unobtrusive grief did not come up and 
chide them. 


IP THAT WERE MY CHILD! 


Ah, good evening, Mr. Pelby ! G-ood evening, 
Mr. Manly ! I am glad to see you ! Mrs. Little 
and I were just saying that we wished some friends 
would step in.’^ 

Well, how do you do this evening, Mrs. Little V’ 
said Mr. Pelby, after they were all seated. “You 
look remarkably well. And how is your little 
family 

“ We are all bright and hearty,’^ Mrs. Little re- 
plied, smiling. “ Little Tommy has just gone ofF 
to bed. If you had come in a few minutes sooner, 
you would have seen the dear little fellow. He’s as 
lively and playful as a cricket.” 

“ How old is he now asked Mr. Manly. 

“ He will be two years and six months old the 
twenty-third of next month.” 

“ Just the age of my Edward. How much I 
should like to see him !” 

“ I don’t think he has gone to sleep yet,” said 
the fond mother of an only child, rising and going 
off to her chamber. 


161 


152 


IF THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


You baclielors donH sympathize much with ua 
fathers of families,” said Mr. Little, laughing, to Mr. 
Pelby. 

How should we ?” 

True enough ! But then you can envy us ; and 
no doubt do.” 

^^It’s well enough for you to think so. Little. 
But, after all, I expect we are the better off.” 

Don’t flatter yourself in any such way, Mr. 
Pelby. I’ve been” 

‘‘ Here’s the darling !” exclaimed Mrs. Little, 
bounding gayly in the room at the moment, with 
Tommy, who was laughing and tossing his arms 
about in delight at being taken up from his bed, 
into which he had gone reluctantly. 

“ Come to pa, Tommy,” said Mr. Little, reaching 
out his hands. Now ain’t that a fine little fellow?” 
he continued, looking from face to face of his two 
friends, and showing off Tommy to the best possible 
advantage that his night-gown would permit. And 
he was a sweet child ; with rosy cheeks, bright blue 
eyes, and clustering golden ringlets. 

Indeed he is a lovely child,” Mr. Manly said 
earnestly. 

A very fine child,” Mr. Pelby remarked, me- 
chanically. 

We’ll match him with the town !” broke in 
Mrs. Little, unable to keep down the upswelling, 
delighted affection of her heart. 


IF THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


153 


this time, Tommy’s bewildered senses were 
restored, and he began to look about him with lively 
interest. His keen eyes soon detected Mr. Pelby’s 
bright gold chain and swivel, and well knowing that 
it betokened a watch, he slid quickly down from his 
father’s lap, and stood beside the knee of the nice 
bachelor visitor. 

He’s not afraid of strangers,” said Mrs. Little, 
her eyes sparkling with pleasure, as they followed 
every movement of her child. 

Tee watch,” said Tommy. 

It’ll bite,” said Mr. Pelby. 

Tee watch !” reiterated the child, grasping the 
chain. 

With not the best grace in the world, Mr. 
Pelby drew out his beautiful gold lever, and sub- 
mitted it to the rude grasp, as he thought, of 
Tommy. 

Oh, ma ! ma ! Tee watch ! tee watch !” cried 
the child, almost wild with delight — at the same 
time advancing towards her as far as the chain would 
permit, and then tugging at it as hard as he could, 
to the no small discomfort of the visitor, who, seeing 
no movement of relief on the part of either parent, 
was forced to slip the chain over his head, and trust 
Tommy to carry his favourite time-keeper to his 
mother. 

Tommy’ll be a watch-maker, 1 expect. Nothing 
pleases him so much as a watch,” remarked the father. 


164 


IP THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


Mr. Pelby did not reply. He dared not, for he 
felt that, were he to trust himself to speak, he should 
betray feelings that politeness required him tx) 
conceal. 

‘‘ There I” suddenly exclaimed the mother, catch- 
ing eagerly at the watch, which Tommy had dropped, 
and recovering it just in time to save it from in- 
jury. 

Grim me ! gim me ! gim me cried Tommy, 
seizing her hands, and endeavouring to get pos- 
session again of the valuable timepiece, which had 
escaped so narrowly. 

There, now,’^ said Mrs. Little, yielding to the 
child’s eager importunity, and permitting him again 
to take possession of the watch. ‘^But you must 
hold it tighter.” 

Mr. Pelby was on nettles ; but he dared not 
interfere. 

“Open it,” said Tommy, endeavouring to loose 
the hinge of the case with his tiny thumb-nail. 

“ Oh, no ; you mustn’t open it, Tommy.” 

“ Open it !” resumed Tommy, in a higher and 
more positive tone. 

“ I can’t open it,” said the mother, pretending to 
make an earnest effort to loose the case. 

“ 0-pen — it screamed the child, in a loud angry 
tone. 

“ Here, take it to Mr. Pelby, he will open it for 
you.” And the watch was again intrusted to Tom- 


IF THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


155 


my's care, who bore it, and, as fortune would have 
it, safely too, to its owner. 

Of course, Mr. Pelby could do no better, and s( 
he displayed the jewels and internal arrangement of 
his skeleton lever to the curious gaze of the child. 
At first, Tommy was well pleased to look alone : 
but soon the ends of his fingers itched to touch, and 
touch he did, quite promptly; and, of course, Mr. 
Pelby very naturally drew back the hand that held 
the watch ; and just as naturally did Tommy sud- 
denly extend his and grasp the receding prize. 
With some diflSculty, Mr. Pelby succeeded in dis- 
engaging the fingers of the child, and then hastily 
closing the watch, he slipped it into his pocket 

There, it’s gone !” said he. 

Tee de watch !” replied Tommy. 

It’s gone clear off,” 

Tee de watch !” said Tommy more emphati- 
cally. 

Here, come see mine,” said the father. 

No,” replied the child, angrily. 

Mr. Pelby, to quiet Tommy, now took him upon 
his lap, and called his attention to a large camec 
breast-pin. This pleased him at once, and he amused 
himself with pulling at it, and sadly rumpling the 
visitor’s snow-white bosom. Next he began to dive 
into his pockets, revealing pen-knife, tooth-pick, etc 
etc. This was worse than to let him have the 
watch ; and so, as a lesser evil, the gold lever was 


166 


IF THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


again drawn from its hiding-place. The little fellow 
was once more wild with delight. 

But Pelby was so evidently annoyed, that Mr. 
Little could not help observing it; and he at length 
said to his wife — 

‘‘HadnH you better take Tommy up-stairs, my 
dear ? He is too troublesome.^^ 

Mr. Pelby had it on his tongue^s end to say, Oh, 
no, he don’t trouble me at all !” But he was afraid 
— not to tell a falsehood — but that the child would 
be suffered to remain ; so he said nothing. 

Come, Tommy,” said Mrs. Little^ holding out 
her hands. 

“No !” replied the child emphatically. 

“ Come.” 

“No !” still louder and more emphatic. 

“ Yes, come, dear.” 

“No, I won’t!” 

“ Yes, but you must !” Mrs. Little said, taking 
hold of him. 

At this. Tommy clung around the neck of Mr. 
Pelby, struggling and kicking with all his might 
against the effort of his mother to disengage him; 
who finally succeeded, and bore him, screaming at 
the top of his voice, from the room. 

“ If that were my child,” said Mr. Pelby, after 
they had left the house, “ I’d half kill him but what 
I’d make a better boy of him 1 I never saw such 
an ill-behaved, graceless little rascal in my life I” 


IF THAT WERE WE CHILD. 


157 


y 

“ Children are children, Mr. Pelby,’^ quietly re- 
marked his auditor, Mr. Manly, who had half a 
dozen little responsibilities” himself. 

Hard bargains at the best, I know. But then 
I have seen good-behaved children ; and, if parents 
would only take proper pains with them, all might 
be trained to good behaviour and obedience. If 1 
had a child, it would act different, I know, from 
what that one did this evening.” 

Old bachelors’ children, you know,” Mr. Manly 
said, with a smile. 

0 yes, I know. But silly adages don’t excuse 
neglectful parents,” replied Mr. Pelby, a little 
touched at the allusion. 

“That is true, Mr. Pelby. But what I meant 
you to understand by the remark was, that those 
who have no children of their own are too often 
wanting in a due consideration and forbearance 
towards those of other people. I have quite a house 
full and I know that I take great pains with them, 
and that the true management of them costs me 
much serious consideration ; and yet I have known 
some of mine to- act much worse than Tommy Little 
did this evening.” 

“ Well, all I have to say in the matter, friend 
Manly, is this : — If I had a child that acted as rudely 
as that young one did to-night, I would teach him 
a lesson that he would not forget for the next twolv 
months.” 

V.— 14 


158 


IP THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


You don’t know what you would do, if you had 
e child, Pelby. An active, restless child requires 
patience and continued forbearance ; and, if it should 
be your lot to have such a one, I am sure your na- 
tural afiection and good sense would combine to pre- 
vent your playing the unreasonable tyrant over it.’^ 
Perhaps it would. But I am sure I should not 
think my natural affection and good sense pledged 
to let my child do as he pleased, and annoy every 
one that came to the house.'’ 

You were exceedingly annoyed, then, to-night 
Annoyed ! Why, I could hardly sit in my chair 
towards the last. And when the young imp came 
pawing me and climbing over me, I could hardly 
help tossing him off of my lap upon the floor.” 

‘‘You did not seem so much worried. I really 
thought you were pleased with the little fellow.” 

“ Now, that is too bad. Manly ! Pd as lief had 
a monkey screwing and twisting about in my lap. 
It was as much as I could do to be civil to either his 
father or mother for suffering their brat to tease me 
as he did. First, I must be kissed by his bread and 
butter mouth ; and then he made me suffer a kind 
of martyrdom in fear of my elegant lever. A watch 
is not the thing for a child to play with, and I am 
astonished at Little for suffering his young one to 
annoy a visitor in that way.” 

“Blame them as much as you please, but don’t 
feel unkindly towards the child,” said Manly. “ Ho 


IF THAT WERE MY CHTLH. 


1^9 


knows no better. Your watch delighted him, and 
of course he wanted it, and any attempt to deprive 
him of it was very naturally resisted. His parents 
are fond of him — and well they may be — and pet 
him a great deal; thus he has learned to expect 
every visitor to notice him, and also expects to no- 
tice and make free with every visitor. This is all 
very natural.^^ 

‘‘ Natural enough, and so is it to steal ; but that 
don^t make it right. Children should be taught, 
from the first, to be reserved in the presence of 
strangers, and never to come near them unless in- 
vited. If I had one. Til be bound he wouldn’t 
disgrace me as Little’s child did him to-night.” 

“ We’ll see, one of these days, perhaps,” was Man- 
ly’s quiet remark ; and the friends parted company. 

Ten years often make a great difference in a 
man’s condition, habits, and feelings. Ten years 
passed away, and Mr. Pelby was a husband, and the 
father of three interesting children, — indulged, of 
course, and pretty considerably” spoiled, yet in- 
teresting withal, and, in the eyes of their father, 
not to be compared for beauty, good manners, etc. 
with any other children inhabiting the same city. 
William, the oldest boy, had not quite completed 
his sixth year. Emma, a rosy-cheeked, chubby 
little thing, when asked her age, could say — 

^^Four years old last June.” 


160 


IF THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


And Henry was just the age that Tommy Little 
was when he so terribly annoyed Mr, Pelby. Now, 
as to Henry’s aceomplishments, they were many and 
various. He could be a good boy when he felt in 
a pleasant humour, and could storm, and fret, and 
pout in a way so well understood by all parents, 
that it would be a work of supererogation to describe 
it here. But strange mutation of disposition ! — 
Mr. Pelby could bear these fits of perverseness with 
a philosophy that would have astonished even him- 
self, could he have for a moment realized his former 
state of mind. When Henry became ill-tempered 
from any cause, he had, from loving him, learned 
that to get into an ill-humour also would be only 
adding fuel to flame ; and so, on such occasions, he 
sought affectionately to calm and soothe his ruffled 
feelings. If Henry, or Emma, or William, from 
any exuberance of happy feelings, were noisy or 
boisterous, he did not think it right to check them 
suddenly, because he was a little annoyed. He 
tried, rather, to feel glad with them — to partake of 
their joy. In short, Mr. Pelby had grown into a 
domestic philosopher. A wife and two or three 
children do wonders sometimes ! 

Now it so happened about this time, that Mr. ana 
Mrs. Manly and Mr. and Mrs, Little were spending 
an evening with Mr. and Mrs. Pelby. William and 
Emma had their suppers prepared for them in the 
kitchen, and then, as usual, were put to bed; but 


N 


IF THAT WERE \IY CHILD. 161 

‘‘ dear little Henry’^ was so interesting to his parents, 
and they naturally thought must be so interesting 
to their company, that he was allowed to sit up and 
come to the tea-table. As Mrs. Pelby had no dining- 
room, the back parlour was used for this purpose^, 
and so all the progressive arrangements of the tea- 
table were visible. 

Oh, dinne weddy ! dinne weddy cried little 
Henry, sliding down from the lap of Mrs. Little — 
whose collar he had been rumpling so that it was 
hardly fit to be seen — as soon as he saw the cloth 
laid ; and, running for a chair, he was soon perched 
up in it, calling lustily for meat.^' 

^^Oh, no, no, Henry! dinner not ready yet said 
Mrs. Pelby, starting forward, and endeavouring to 
remove the child from his seat ; but Henry screamed 
and resisted. 

Oh, let him sit, mother I” interfered Mr. Pelby. 
The little dear donH understand waiting as we do.^' 

Yes, but, father, it is time that he had learned. 
Tea isn’t near ready yet ; and if he is allowed to sit 
here, he will pull and haul every thing about,” re- 
sponded Mrs. Pelby. 

Oh, never mind, mother I Give him some meat, 
and heTl be quiet enough. I never like to see little 
folks made to wait for grown people ; they cannot 
understand nor appreciate the reason of it.” 

And so little Henry was permitted to remain at 
the table, picking first at one thing and then at 

14 * 


162 


IF THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


another, much to the discomfort and mortification 
of his mother, who could not see in this indulgence 
any thing very interesting. Mrs. Little was re- 
lieved, although her collar was disfigured for tne 
evening past hope. 

After a while tea was announced, and the com- 
pany sat down. 

“ Me toffee ! me toffee V* cried Henry, stretching 
out his hands impatiently. Me toffee, ma ! me 
toffee, ma as soon as Mrs. Pelby was seated before 
the tea-tray, and had commenced supplying the cups 
with cream and sugar. 

Yes — yes — Henry shall have coffee. H-u-s-h — 
there — be quiet — that^s a good boy,^' she said, sooth- 
ingly. But 

Me toffee, ma ! me toffee, ma ! me toffee, ma 
was continued without a moment’s cessation. “ Ma I 
ma I ma ! me toffee ! me toffee I” 

^^Yes, yes, yes! you shall have coffee in a mo- 
ment; only be patient, child 1” Mrs. Pelby now said, 
evidently worried ; for Henry was crying at the top 
of his voice, and impatiently shaking his hands and 
vibrating his whole body. 

But he ceased not a moment until his mother, 
before any of the company had been served, pre- 
pared him a cup of milk and warm water, sweetened. 
Placing his lips to the edge of the cup, Henry drank 
the whole of it off before the table was more than 
half served. 


IF THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


163 


Mg more toffee, ma 

Mrs. Pelby paused, and looked him in the faoa 
with an expression of half despair and half astonish- 
ment. 

Me more toffee, ma \” continued Henry. 

“ Yes, wait a moment, and Pll give you more," 
she said. 

More toffee, ma !" in a louder voice. 

Yes, in a moment." 

More toffee, ma !" This time louder and more 
impatiently. 

To keep the peace, a second cup of milk and water 
had to be prepared, and then Mrs. Pelby finished 
waiting on her company. But it soon appeared that 
the second cup had not really been wanted, for now 
that he had it, the child could not swallow more 
than two or three draughts. His amusement now 
consisted in playing in his saucer with a spoon^ 
which being perceived by his mother, she said to 
him — 

There now, Henry, you didn't want that, after 
all. Come, let me pour your tea back into the cup, 
and set the cup on the waiter, or you will spill it;" 
at the same time making a motion to do what she 
had proposed. But — 

No ! no ! no !" cried the child, clinging to the 
saucer, and attempting to remove it out of his mo- 
ther’s reach. This he did so suddenly, that the 
entire contents were thrown into Mrs. Little’s lap 


164 


IF THAT WERE MY CHILD, 


Bkss me, Mrs. Little I” exclaimed Mrs. Pelby^ 
really distressed ; ‘‘ that is too bad ! Come, Henry, 
you must go away from the table ]” at the same 
time attempting to remove him. But he cried — 

“ No ! no ! no I” so loud, that she was constrained 
to desist. 

There, let him sit ; he wonH do so any more,'' 
said Mr. Pelby. “ That was very naughty, Henry. 
Come, now, if you want your tea, drink it, or let 
me put it away." 

Henry already knew enough of his father to be 
convinced that when he spoke in a certain low, 
emphatic tone, he was in earnest ; and so he very 
quietly put his mouth dpwn to his saucer and pre- 
tended to drink, though it would have been as 
strange as pouring water into a full cup without 
overflowing it, as for him to have let any more go 
down his throat, without spilling a portion already 
there out at the top. 

Tea was at last over, and Mrs. Little, on rising 
from the table, had opportunity and leisure to ex- 
amine her beautiful silk, now worn for the second 
time. Fortunately, it was of a colour that tea would 
not injure, although it was by no means pleasant to 
have a whole front breadth completely saturated. 
Mrs. Pelby made many apologies, but Mr. Pelby 
called it a family accident," and one of a kind 
that married people were so familiar with, as scarcely 
to he annoyed by them. 


IP THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


166 


Come here, Henry,” said he. “Just see what 
you have done! Now go kiss the lady, and say, 
‘ I'm sorry.' ” 

The little fellow's eye brightened, and going up 
to Mrs. Little, he pouted out his cherry lips, and, 
as she kissed him, he said, with a suddenly-assumed 
demure, penitent look — “ I torry.'' 

What's Henry sorry for ?” asked Mrs. Little, 
instantly softening towards the child, and taking 
him on her knee. 

I torry,” he repeated, but in a much livelier 
tone, at the same time that he clambered up and 
stood in her lap, with his little hands again crushing 
her beautiful French collar. 

Come here, Henry,” said Mr. Manly, who saw 
that Mrs. Little was annoyed at thisj hut Henry 
would not move. He had espied a comb in Mrs. 
Little’s head, and had just laid violent hands upon 
it, threatening every moment to flood that lady's 
neck and shoulders with her own dishevelled tresses. 

“ Come and see my watch,” said Mr. Manly. 

This was enough. Henry slid from Mrs. Little's 
lap instantly, and in the next minute was seated on 
Mr. Manly's knee, examining that gentleman's time- 
keeper. Between opening and shutting the watch, 
holding it flrst to his own and then to Mr. Manly’s 
ear, Henry spent full a quarter of an hour. Even that 
considerate, kind-hearted gentleman's patience began 
to be impaired, and he could not help thinking that 


166 


IF THAT WERE MY CHILD 


his friend, Mr. Pelby, ought to be thoughtful enough 
to relieve him. Once or twice he made a movement 
to replace the watch in his pocket, but this was in- 
stantly perceived and as promptly resisted. The 
little fellow had an instinctive perception that Mr. 
Manly did not wish him to have the watch, and for 
that very reason retained possession of it long beyond 
the time that he would have done if it had been fully 
relinquished to him. 

At last he tired of the glittering toy, and returned 
to annoy Mrs. Little ; but she was saved by the ap- 
pearance of a servant with fruit and cakes. 

Dim me cake ! dim me cake V* cried Henry, 
seizing hold of the servant’s clothes, and pulling 
her so suddenly as almost to cause her to let fall the 
tray that was in her hands. 

To keep the peace, Henry was helped first of all 
to a slice of pound-cake. 

Mo’ cake,” he said, in a moment or two after, 
unable to articulate with any degree of distinctness, 
for his mouth was so full that each cheek stood out, 
and his lips essayed in vain to close over the abun- 
dant supply within. Another piece was given, and 
this disappeared as quickly. Then he wanted an 
apple, and as soon as he got one, he cried for a second 
and a third. Then 

But we will not chronicle the sayings and doings 
of little Henry further ; more than to say, that he 
soon, from being allowed to sit up beyond the ac- 


IF THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


167 


customed hour, grew fretful and exceedingly trou- 
blesome, preventing all pleasant intercourse between 
the visitors and visited, and that at nine o^clock he 
was carried off screaming to his bed. 

If that were my child,^^ said Mr. Little, pausing 
at his own door, and turning round to Mr. and Mrs. 
Manly, who had accompanied his wife thus far on 
their way home, I would teach him better manners, 
or I would half kill him. I never saw such an ill- 
conditioned little imp in my life 

“ Children are children, you know,^^ was Mr. 
Manly’s quiet reply. 

“ Yes, but children may be made to behave, if 
any pains at all be taken with them. It is really 
unpardonable for any one to let a child like that 
worry visitors as he did us this evening.” 

Few children of his age, Mr. Little, unless of a 
remarkably quiet and obedient disposition, are much 
better than Pelby’s little boy.” 

As to that, Mr. Manly,” broke in Mrs. Little, 
there’s our Tommy, a fine boy of twelve, as you 
know. He never acted like that when he was a 
child. I never had a bit of trouble with him when 
we had company. We could bring him down into 
the parlour when he was of Henry Pelby’s age, and 
he would go round and kiss all the ladies so sweetly, 
and then go off to bed, like a little man, as he was.” 

** Ah, Mrs. Little, you forget,” said Mr. Manly, 
laughing. 


168 


IF THAT WERE MY CHILD 


no, indeed, Mr. Manly. I donH forget 
these things. We could do any thing with Tommy 
at his age, and it was because we managed him 
rightly. You can do any thing with children you 
please.” 

Indeed, then, Mrs. Little, it is more than I can 
say,” remarked Mrs. Manly. If my children could 
be made any thing at all of, they would have been 
different from what they are ; and yet, I believe,” 
she added, with a feeling of maternal pride, they 
are not the worst children I have ever seen.” 

^^Good-nights” were now exchanged, and, after 
Mr. and Mrs. Manly had walked a few steps, the 
former said. 

Well, this is a curious world that we live in. 
Ten years ago, Pelby, then a trim bachelor, as nice 
and particular as any of the tribe, said, in allusion to 
Tommy Little — ‘ If that were my child, I would 
half kill him but what I’d make a better boy of 
him !’ ” 

^‘He did?” 

“ Yes, those were his very words. We were spend- 
ing an evening at Mr. and Mrs. Little’s, and when 
Tommy was about two years old or so ; and Pelby 
was terribly annoyed by him. He acted pretty 
much as all children do — that is, pretty much as 
Henry did to-night. But Pelby couldn’t endure it 
with any kind of patience.” 

<< Ha ! ha !” laughed out Mrs. Manly, in spite of 


IF THAI WERE MY CHILD. 


169 


herself. ^^How completely the tables have been 
turned I” 

Yes, they have been, certainly. But what is a 
little singular is, that neither of the parties con- 
cerned seem to have gained wisdom by their experi- 
ence. Pelby forgets how other people’s children 
once annoyed him, and Mr. and Mrs. Little seem to 
be entirely unconscious that their paragon was very 
much like all other little boys when he was only 
about two or three years old. For my part, I think 
we should be careful not to let our children trespass 
upon visitors. None can feel the same interest in 
them that we do, or exercise the same forbearance 
towards their faults. Faults they all have, which 
need especial care in their correction; and these 
should be suffered to appear as rarely as possible 
under circumstances which prevent a salutary check 
being placed upon them. For this reason, you 
know, we have made it a matter of concert not to 
.let our children, while too young to understand some- 
thing of propriety, be present, but for a very short 
time, when we had company. The moment they 
become rude or too familiar, they were quietly taken 
from the room.’’ 

Yes ; and knowing as I do,” said Mrs. Manly, 
how very restless some children with active minds 
are, I am never disposed to look with unfavourable 
eyes upon any, even when wild, turbulent, and 

heedless. They act as they feel ; and so far as evil 
v.— 16 


THAT WERE MY CHILD. 


affections show themselves, we know they are in- 
herited, and that it is not in the power of the child 
to remove, them. We should then be moved, it 
seems to me, with a purer affection for them ; with 
something of pity mixed with our love, and, instead 
of suffering their wrong actions to repulse us, we 
should draw towards them with a desire to teach 
them what is wrong, and impart to them some power 
to overcome evil.^^ 

If all thought as you, Mary,'" said Mr. Manly, 
as they gained their own doors, “ we should hear no 
one railing out against other people's children, while 
he indulged his own. A fault too common with 
most parents." 


I WILL! 


You look sober, Laura. What has thrown a 
veil over your happy face said Mrs. Cleaveland 
to her niece, one morning, on finding her alone and 
with a very thoughtful countenance. 

Do I really look sober and Laura smiled as 
she spoke. 

‘‘ You did just now. But the sunshine hat^ al- 
ready dispelled the transient cloud. I am glad that 
a storm was not portended.’^ 

I felt sober, aunt,^’ Laura said, after a few mo- 
ments — her face again becoming serious. 

“ So I supposed, from your looks.^^ 

And I feel sober still.’^ 

Why V’ 

I am really discouraged, aunt.^^ 

“ About what 

The maiden’s cheek deepened its hue, but shi did 
not reply. 

You and Harry have not fallen out, like a paii 
of foolish lovers, I hope.” 

Oh, no I” was the quick and emphatic answer. 


172 


I will! 


Then what has troubled the quiet waters of 
your spirit ? About what are you discouraged 

I will tell you,” the maiden replied. It was 
only about a week after my engagement with Harry 
that I called upon Alice Stacy, and found her quite 
unhappy. She had not been married over a few 
months. I asked what troubled her, and she said, 

‘ I feel as miserable as I can be.’ ‘ But what makes 
you miserable, Alice T I inquired. ‘ Because Wil- 
liam and I have quarrelled — that’s the reason,’ she 
said, with some levity, tossing her head and com- 
pressing her lips, with a kind of defiance. I was 
shocked — so much so, that I could not speak. ‘ The 
fact is,’ she resumed, before I could reply, ‘ all men 
are arbitrary and unreasonable. They think women 
inferior to them, and their wives as a higher order 
of slaves. But I am not one to be put under any 
man’s feet. William has tried that trick with me, 
and failed. Of course, to be foiled by a woman is 
no very pleasant thing for one of your lords of crea- 
tion. A tempest in a teapot was the consequence 
But I did not yield the point in dispute ; and, what 
is more, have no idea of doing so. He will have to 
find out, sooner or later, that I am his equal in every 
way ; and the quicker he can be made conscious of 
this, the better for us both. Don’t you think so V 
I made no answer. I was too much surprised and 
shocked. ^ All men,’ she continued, ‘ have to be 
taught this. There never was a husband who did 


I will! 


173 


not, at first, attempt to lord it over his wife. And 
there never was a woman, whose condition as a wife 
was at all above that of a passive slave, who did not 
find it necessary to oppose herself at first, with un- 
flinching perseverance/ 

To all this, and a great deal more, I could say 
nothing. It choked me up. Since then, I have 
met her frequently, at home and elsewhere, but she 
has never looked happy. Several times she has 
said to me, in company, when I have taken a seat 
beside her, and remarked that she seemed dull, 
^ Yes, I am dull ; but Mr. Stacy, there, you see, 
enjoys himself. Men always enjoy themselves in 
company — apart from their wives, of course.^ I 
would sometimes oppose to this a sentiment pallia- 
tive of her husband; as, that, in company, a man 
very naturally wished to add his mite to the general 
joyousness, or something of a like nature. But it 
only excited her, and drew forth remarks that shocked 
my feelings. Up to this day, they do not appear tc 
be on any better terms. Then, there is Frances 
Glenn — married only three months, and as fond of 
carping at her husband for his arbitrary, domineering 
spirit, as is Mrs. Stacy. I could name two or three 
others, who have been married, some a shorter and 
some a longer period, that do not seem to be united 
by any closer bonds. 

It is the condition of these young friends, aunt, 

that causes me to feel serious. I am to be married 
16 * 


174 


I will! 


in a few weeks. Can it be possible that my union 
with Henry Armour. will be no happier, no more 
perfect than theirs ? This I cannot believe. And 
yet, the relation that Alice and Frances hold to 
their husbands, troubles me whenever I think of it. 
Henry, as far as I have been able to understand 
him, has strong points in his character. From a 
right course of action, — or, from a course of action 
that he thinks right, — no consideration, I am sure, 
would turn him. I, too, have mental characteris- 
tics somewhat similar. There is, likewise, about 
me, a leaven of stubbornness. I tremble when the 
thought of opposition between us, upon any sub- 
ject, crosses my mind. I would rather die— so I 
feel about it than ever have a misunderstanding 
with my husband.'' 

Laura ceased, and her aunt, who was, she now 
perceived, much agitated, arose and left the room 
without speaking. The reason of this to Laura was 
altogether unaccountable. Her aunt Cleaveland, 
always so mild, so calm, to be thus strongly dis- 
turbed ! What could it mean ? What could there 
be in her maidenly fears to excite the feelings of one 
so good, and wise, and gentle ? An hour afterwards, 
and while she yet sat, sober and perplexed in mind, 
m the same place where Mrs. Cleaveland had left 
her, a domestic came in and said that her aunt 
wished to see her in her own room. Laura attended 
her immediately. She found her calm and self- 


I will! 


175 


possessed, but paler than usual. Sit down beside 
me, dear,^’ Mrs. Cleaveland said, smiling faintly, as 
her niece came in. 

What you said this morning, Laura,^^ she began, 
after a few moments, “ recalled my own early years 
so vividly, that I could not keep down emotions I 
had deemed long since powerless. The cause of 
those emotions it is now, I clearly see, my duty to 
reveal — that is, to you. For years I have carefully 
avoided permitting my mind to go back to the past, 
in vain m usings over scenes that bring no pleasant 
thoughts, no glad feelings. I have, rather, looked 
into the future with a steady hope, a calm reliance. 
But, for your sake, I will draw aside the veil. May 
the relation I am now about to give you have the 
effect I desire 1 Then shall I not suffer in vain. 
How vividly, at this moment, do I remember the 
joyful feelings that pervaded my bosom, when, like 
you, a maiden, I looked forward to my wedding-day. 
Mr. Cleaveland was a man, in many respects, like 
Henry Armour. Proud, firm, yet gentle and amia- 
ble when not opposed; — a man with whom I might 
have been supremely happy; — a man whose faults 
I might have corrected— not by open opposition to 
them — not by seeming to notice them — but by lead- 
ing him to see them himself. But this course I did 
not pursue. I was proud ; I was self-willed ; I 
was unyielding. Elements like these can never 
come into opposition without a victory on either 


176 


r will! 


side being as disastrous as the defeats. We were 
married. Oh, how sweet was the promise of my 
wedding-day I Of my husband I was very fond. 
Handsome, educated, and with talents of a high 
order, there was every thing about him to make the 
heart of a young wife proud. Tenderly we loved 
each other. Like days in Elysium passed the first 
few months of our wedded life. Our thoughts and 
wishes were one. After that, gradually a change 
appeared to come over my husband. He deferred 
less readily to my wishes. His own will was more 
frequently opposed to mine, and his contentions for 
victory longer and longer continued. This sur- 
prised and pained me. But it did not occur to me, 
that my tenaciousness of opinion might seem as 
strange to him as did his to me. It did not occur 
to me, that there would be a propriety in my defer- 
ring to him — at least so far as to give up opposition. 
I never for a moment reflected that a proud, firm- 
spirited man, might be driven off from an opposing 
wife, rather than drawn closer and united in ten- 
derer bonds. I only perceived my rights as an equal 
assailed. And, from that point of view, saw his 
conduct as dogmatical and overbearing, whenever he 
resolutely set himself against me, as was far too 
frequently the case. 

^^One day, — we had then been married about 
six months, — he said to me, a little seriously, yet 
smiling as he spoke, ^ Jane, did not I see you on the 


I will! 


177 


street, this morning V ^ You did,' I replied. ^ And 
with Mrs. Corbin V ^ Yes.' My answer to this 
last question was not given in a very pleasant tone. 
The reason was this. Mrs. Corbin, a recent acquaint- 
ance, was no favourite with my husband ; and he 
had more than once mildly suggested that she was 
not, in his view, a fit associate for me. This rather 
touched my pride. It occurred to me, that I ought 
to be the best judge of my female associates, and 
that for my husband to make any objections was an 
assumption on his part, that, as a wife, I was called 
upon to resist. I did not, on previous occasions, say 
any thing very decided, contenting myself with par- 
rying his objections laughingly. This time, howevei , 
I was in a less forbearing mood. ^ I wish you 
would not make that woman your friend,' he said, 
after I had admitted that he was right in his obser- 
vation. ‘ And why not, pray V I asked, looking at 
him quite steadily. ^ For reasons before given, 
Jane,' he replied, mildly, but firmly. ^ There are 
reports in circulation touching her character, that I 

fear are' ‘ They are false I' I interrupted him. 

< I know they are false I' I spoke with a sudden 
excitement. My voice trembled, my cheek burned, 
and I was conscious that my eye shot forth no 
mild light. ‘ They are true — I know they are 
true !' Mr. Cleaveland said, sternly, but apparently 
unruffled. ^ I don't believe it.' I retorted. ^ I know 
her far better. She is an injured woman.' 


178 


I will! 


‘ Jane/ my husband now said, his voice slightly 
trembling, ^ you are my wife. As such, your repu- 
tation is as dear to me as the apple of my oya 
Suspicion has been cast upon Mrs. Corbin, and that 
suspicion I have good reason for believing well 
founded. If you associate with her — if you are seen 
upon the street with her, your fair fame will receive 
a taint. This I cannot permit.^ 

There was, to my mind, a threat contained in 
the last sentence — a threat of authoritative inter- 
vention. At this my pride took fire. 

‘ Cannot permit !’ I said, drawing myself up. 
• What do you mean, Mr. Cleveland 

The brow of my husband instantly flushed. He 
was silent for a moment or two. Then he said, with 
forced calmness, yet in a resolute, meaning tone — 

^ Jane, I do not wish you to keep company with 
Mrs. Corbin.^ 

^ I WILL was my indignant reply. 

His face grew deadly pale. For a moment his 
whole frame trembled as if some fearful struggle 
were going on within. Then he quietly arose, and, 
without looking at me, left the room. Oh 1 how 
deeply did I regret uttering those unhappy words 
the instant they were spoken ! But repentance came 
too late. For about the space of ten minutes, pride 
struggled with affection and duty. At the end of 
that time the latter triumphed, and I hastened after 
my husband to ask his forgiveness for what I said 


I YvTLlI 


179 


But he was not in the parlours. He was not in the 
house ! I asked a servant if she had seen him, and 
received for reply that he had gone out. 

Anxiously passed the hours until nightfall. 
The sad twilight, as it gathered dimly around, threw 
a deeper gloom over my heart. My husband usually 
came home before dark. Now he was away beyond 
his accustomed hour. Instead of returning gladly 
to meet his young wife, he was staying away, be- 
cause that young wife had thrown off the attractions 
of love and presented to him features harsh and re- 
pulsive. How anxiously I longed to hear the sound 
of his footsteps — to see his face — to hear his voice ! 
The moment of his entrance I resolved should be 
the moment of my humble confession of wrong — of 
my faithful promise never again to set up my will 
determinedly in opposition to"'his judgment. But 
minute after minute passed after nightfall — hours 
succeeded minutes — and these rolled on until the 
whole night wore away, and he came not back to me. 
As the gray light of morning stole into my chamber, 
a terrible fear took hold of me, that made my heart 
grow .still in my bosom — the fear that he would 
never return — that I had driven him off from me. 
Alas ! this fear was too nigh the truth. The whole 
of that day passed, and the next and the next, with- 
out any tidings. No one had seen him since he left 
me. An anxious excitement spread among all his 
friends. The only account I could give of him, was, 


180 


I WILL ! 


that he had parted from me in good health, and in a 
sane mind. 

week rolled by, and still no word came. I 
was nearly distracted. What I suffered, no tongue 
ian tell, no heart conceive. I have often wondered 
that I did not become insane ; but from this sad 
condition I was saved. Through all, my reason, 
though often trembling, did not once forsake me. 
It was on the tenth day from that upon which we 
had jarred so heavily as to be driven widely asunder, 
that a letter came to me, post-marked New Yorl^, 
and endorsed ^ In haste.’ My hands trembled so 
that I could with difficulty break the seal. The 
contents were to the effect that my husband had 
been lying for several days at one of the hotels there, 
very ill, but now past the crisis of his disease, and 
thought by the phy»ioia.n to be out of danger. The 
writer urged me, from my husband.,, to 9pme on im- 
mediately. In eight hours from the time I received 
that letter, I was in New York. Alas ! it was too 
late ; the disease had returned with double violence, 
and snapped the feeble thread of life. I never saw 
my husband’s living face again.” 

The self-possession of Mrs. Cleaveland, at this part 
of her narrative, gave way. Covering her face with 
her hands, she sobbed violently, while the tears came 
trickling through her fingers. 

My dear Laura,” she resumed, after the lapse 
of many minutes, looking up as she spoke, with a 


I WILL ! 


181 


clear eye, and a sober, but placid countenance, it 
is for your sake that I have turned my gaze reso- 
lutely back. May the painful history I have given 
you make a deep impression upon your heart ; let 
it warn you of the sunken rock upon which my bark 
foundered. Avoid carefully, religiously avoid setting 
yourself in opposition to your husband ; should he 
prove unreasonable or arbitrary, nothing is to be 
gained, and every thing lost by contention. By 
gentleness, by forbearance, by even suffering wrong 
at times, you will be able to win him over to a bettei 
spirit: an opposite course will as assuredly put 
thorns in your pillow as you adopt it. Look at the 
unhappy condition of the friends you have named; 
their husbands are,jn-thiii eyes, exacting, domineer- 
ing tyrants. But this need not be. Let them act 
truly the woman’s part. Let them not oppose, but 
yield, and they will find that their present tyrants 
will become their lovers. Above all, never, under 
any circumstances, either jestingly or in earnest, say 
^ I willj when you are opposed. That declaration 
is never made without its robbing the wife of a por- 
tion of her husband’s confidence and love; its utter- 
ance has dimmed the fire upon many a smiling 
hearth-stone.” 

Laura could not reply; the relation of her aunt 
had deeply shocked her feelings. But the words 
she had uttered sank into her heart ; and when her 
trial came — when she was tempted to set her will 

V.— 16 


182 


I will! 


in opposition to her husband’s, and resolutely to 
contend for what she deemed right, a thought of 
Mrs. Cleaveland’s story would put a seal upon her 
lips. It was well. The character of Henry Armour 
too nearly resembled that of Mr. Cleaveland : he 
could illy have brooked a wife’s opposition j but her 
tenderness, her forbearance, her devoted love, bound 
her to him with cords that drew closer and closer 
each revolving year. She never opposed him further 
than to express a difference of opinion when such a 
difference existed, and its utterance was deemed use- 
ful j and she carefully avoided, on all occasions, the 
doing of any thing of which he in the smallest de- 
gree disapproved. The consequence was, that her 
opinion was always weigli6'd"'by him carefully, and 
often deferred to. A mutual confidence and a mu- 
tual dependence upon each other gradually took the 
place of early reserves, and now they sweetly draw 
together — now they smoothly glide along the stream 
of life blessed indeed in all their marriage relations. 
Who will say that Laura did not act a wise part ? 
Who will say that in sacrificing pride and self-will, 
she did not gain beyond all calculation ? No one, 
surely. She is not her husband’s slave, but his 
companion and equal. She has helped to reform 
and remodel his character, and make him less arbi- 
trary, less self-willed, less disposed to be tyrannical. 
In her mild forbearance, he has seen a beauty more 
attractive far than lip or cheek, or beaming eye. 


I will! 


185 


Instead of looking upon his wife as below him, 
Henry Armour feels that she is his superior, and as 
such he tenderly regards and lovingly cherishes her. 
He never thinks of obedience from her, but rather 
studies to conform himself to her most lightly-spoken 
wish. To be thus united, what wife will not for a 
time sacrifice her feelings when her young self-willed 
husband so far forgets himself as to become exacting I 
The temporary loss will turn out in the future to be 
a great gain. 


A MOTHER’S INFLUENCE. 


There come the children from school/^ said 
Aunt Mary, looking from the window. “ Just see 
that Clarence ! he’ll have Henry in the gutter. 1 
never saw just such another boy; why can’t he come 
quietly along like other children ? There ! now he 
must stop to throw stones at the pigs. That boy’ll 
give you the heart-ache yet, Anna.” 

Mrs. Hartley made no reply, but laid aside her 
work quietly and left the room to see that their 
dinner was ready. In a few minutes the street-door 
was thrown open, and the children came bounding 
in full of life, and noisy as they could be. 

Where is your coat, Clarence ?” she asked, in a 
pleasant tone, looking her oldest boy in the face. 

“ Oh, I forgot !” he replied, cheerfully; and turn- 
ing quickly, he ran down stairs, and lifting his coat 
from where, in his thoughtlessness, he had thrown 
it upon the floor, hung it up in its proper place, and 
then sprang up the stairs. 

Isn’t dinner ready yet ?” he said, with fretful 
impatience, his whole manner changing suddenly, 
‘‘ I’m hungry.” 

184 


A mother’s influence. 


185 


II will be ready in a few minutes, Clarence/*’ 

I want it now. I’m hungry.” 

Did you ever hear of the man,” said Mrs. Hart- 
ley, in a voice that showed no disturbance of mind, 
<‘who wanted the sun to rise an hour before its 
time ?” 

No, mother. Tell me about it, won’t you ?” 

All impatience had vanished from the boy’s 
face. 

There was a man who had to go upon a journey; 
the stage-coach was to call for him at sun-rise. 
More than an hour before it was time for the sun 
to be up, the man was all ready to go, and for the 
whole of that hour he walked the floor impatiently, 
grumbling at the sun because he did not rise. ‘ I’m 
all ready, and I want to be going,’ he said. ^ It’s 
time the sun was up, long ago.’ Don’t you think 
he was a very foolish man ?” 

Clarence laughed, and said he thought the man 
was very foolish indeed. 

“Do you think he was more foolish than you 
were just now for grumbling because dinner wasn’t 
ready ?” 

Clarence laughed again, and said he did not know. 
Just then Hannah, the cook, brought in the waiter 
with the children’s dinner upon it. Clarence sprang 
for a chair, and drew it hastily and noisily to the 
fable. 

“ Try and see if you can’t do that more orderly, 
16 * 


186 


A mother’s influence. 


my dear/’ his mother said, in a quiet voice, looking 
at him, as she spoke, with a steady eye. 

The boy removed his chair, and then replaced it 
gently. 

‘‘ That is much better, my son.’’ 

And thus she corrected his disorderly habits, qui- 
eted his impatient temper, and checked his rudeness, 
without showing any disturbance. This she had to 
do daily. At almost every meal she found it neces- 
sary to repress his rude impatience. It was line 
upon line, and precept upon precept. But she never 
tired, and rarely permitted herself to show that she 
was disturbed, no matter how deeply grieved she 
was at times over the wild and reckless spirit of her 
boy. 

On the next day she was not very well ; her head 
ached badly all the morning. Hearing the children 
in the passage when they came in from school at 
noon, she was rising from the bed where she had 
lain down, to attend to them and give them their 
dinners, when Aunt Mary said — Don’t get up, 
Anna, I will see to the children.” 

It was rarely that Mrs. Hartley let any one do 
for them what she could do herself, for no one else 
could manage the unhappy temper of Clarence; but 
so violent was the pain in her head, that she let 
Aunt Mary go, and sank back upon the pillow from 
which she had arisen. A good deal of noise and 
confusion continued to reach her ears, from the mo- 


A mother’s influence. 


187 


ment the children came in. At length a loud cry 
and passionate words from Clarence caused her 
rise up quickly and go over to the dining-room. All 
was confusion there, and Aunt Mary out of humour 
and scolding prodigiously. Clarence was standing 
up at the table, looking defiance at her, on account 
of some interference with his strong self-will. The 
moment the boy saw his mother, his countenance 
changed, and a look of confusion took the place of 
anger. 

‘‘ Come over to my room, Clarence,” she said, in 
a low voice; there was sadness in its tones, that 
made him feel sorry that he had given vent so freely 
to his ill-temper. 

What was the matter, my son Mrs. Hartley 
asked, as soon as they were alone, taking Clarence 
by the hand and looking steadily at him. 

Aunt Mary wouldn’t help me when I asked her.” 

Why not 

She would help Henry first.” 

‘^No doubt she had a reason for it. Do you 
know her reason ?” 

She said be was youngest.” Clarence pouted 
out his lips, and spoke in a very disagreeable tone. 

“ Don’t you think that was a very good reason 

I’ve as good a right to be helped first as he has.” 

Let us see if that is so. You and Marien and 
Henry came in from school, all hungry and anxious 
for your dinners. Marien is oldest — she, one would 


188 


A mother's influence. 


suppose, from the fact that she is oldest, would be 
better able to feel for her brothers, and be willing 
to see their wants supplied before her own. You 
are older than Henry, and should feel for him in the 
same way. No doubt this was Aunt Mary’s reason 
for helping Henry first. Had she helped Marien 
“ No, ma’am.” 

^ Hid Marien complain ?” 

No, ma’am.” 

No one complained but my unhappy Clarence. 
Ho you know why you complained? I can tell 
you, as I have often told you before ; it is because 
you indulge in very selfish feelings. All who do so, 
make themselves miserable. If, instead of wanting 
Aunt Mary to help you first, you had, from a love 
of your little brother, been willing to see him first 
attended to, you would have enjoyed a real pleasure. 
If you had said — ^ Aunt Mary, help Harry first,’ I 
am sure Henry would have said instantly — ^ No, 
Aunt Mary, help brother Clarence first,’ How 
pleasant this would have been ! how happy would 
all of us have felt at thus seeing two little brothers 
generously preferring one another !” 

There was an unusual degree of tenderness, even 
Badness in the voice of his mother, that affected Cla- 
rence ; but he struggled with his feelings. When, 
however, she resumed, and said — I have felt quite 
sick all the morning; my head has ached badly — so 
badly that I have had to lie down. I always give 


A mother’s influence. 


189 


y 

you your dinners when you come home, and try to 
make you comfortable. To-day I let Aunt Mary do 
it, because I felt so sick ; but I am sorry that I did 
not get up, sick as I was, and do it myself ; then 1 
might have prevented this unhappy outbreak of my 
boy’s unruly temper, that has made not only my 
head ache ten times as badly as it did, but my heart 
ache also’' 

Clarence burst into tears, and throwing his arms 
around his mother’s neck, wept bitterly. 

I will try and be good, dear mother,” he said. 
“ I do try sometimes, but it seems that I can’t.” 

You must always try, my dear son. Now dry 
up your tears, and go out and get your dinner. Or, 
if you would rather I should go with you, I will do 
so.” 

No, dear mother,” replied the boy, affection- 
ately, ^‘you are sick; you must not go. I will be 
good.” 

Clarence kissed his mother again, and then re- 
turned quietly to the dining-room. 

Naughty boy !” said Aunt Mary, as he entered, 
looking sternly at him. 

A bitter retort came instantly to the tongue of 
Clarence, but he checked himself with a strong effort, 
and took his place at the table. Instead of sooth- 
ing the quick-tempered boy. Aunt Mary chafed him 
by her words and manner during the whole meal, 
and it was only the image of his mother’s tearful 


190 


A mother’s influence. 


face, and the remembrance that she was sick, that 
restrained an outbreak of his passionate temper. 

When Clarence left the table, he returned to his 
mother’s room, and laid his head upon the pillow 
where her’s was resting. 

love you, mother,” he said, affectionately; 
you are good. But I hate Aunt Mary.” 

Oh, no, Clarence ; you must not say that you 
hate Aunt Mary, for Aunt Mary is very kind to you. 
You mustn’t hate anybody.” 

She isn’t kind to me, mother. She calls me a 
bad boy, and says every thing to make me angry 
when I want to be good.” 

Think, my son, if there is not some reason for 
Aunt Mary calling you a bad boy. You know your- 
self, that you act very naughtily sometimes, and 
provoke Aunt Mary a great deal.” 

But she said I was a naughty boy when I went 
out just now, and I was sorry for what I had done, 
and wanted to be good.” 

Aunt Mary didn’t know that you were sorry, 
I am sure. When she called you ^ naughty boy,’ 
what did you say ?” 

" I was going to say [ You’re a fool !’ but I didn’t. 
I tried hard not to let my tongue say the bad words, 
though it wanted to.” 

Why did you try not to say them ?” 

Because it would have been wrong, and would 
have made you feel sorry; and I love you.” Again 


A mother’s influence. 


191 


the repentant boj kissed her. His eyes were full 
of tears, and so were the eyes of his mother. 

While talking over this incident with her husband, 
Mrs. Hartley said — Were not all these impressions 
so light, I would feel encouraged. The boy has 
warm and tender feelings, but I fear that his pas- 
sionate temper and selfishness will, like evil weeds, 
completely check their growth.” 

The. case is bad enough, Anna, but not so bad, 
I hope, as you fear. These good afifections are never 
active in vain. They impress the mind with an 
indelible impression. In after years the remem- 
brance of them will revive the states they produced, 
and give strength to good desires and intentions. 
Amid all his irregularities and wanderings from 
good, in after-life, the thoughts of his mother will 
restore the feelings he had to-day, and draw him 
back from evil with cords of love that cannot be 
broken. The good now implanted will remain, and, 
like ten just men, save the city. In most instances 
where men abandon themselves finally to evil courses, 
it will be found that the impressions made in child- 
hood were not of the right kind ; that the mother’s 
influence was not what it should have been. For 
myself, I am sure that a different mother would 
have made me a different man. When a boy, I was 
too much like Clarence; but the tenderness with 
which my mother always treated me, and the unim- 
passioned but earnest manner in which she reproved 


192 


A mother’s influence. 


and corrected my faults, subdued my unruly temper, 
When I became restless or impatient, she always 
had a book to read to me, or a story to tell, or had 
some device to save me from myself. My father 
was neither harsh nor indulgent towards me; I 
cherish his memory with respect and love; but I 
have different feelings when I think of my mother. 
I often feel, even now, as if she were near me — as 
if her cheek were laid to mine. My father would 
place his hand npon my head caressingly, but my 
mother would lay her cheek against mine. I did 
not expect my father to do more — I do not know 
that I would have loved him had he done more; 
for him it was a natural expression of affection ; but 
no act is too tender for a mother. Her kiss upon 
my cheek, her warm embrace, are all felt now ; and 
the older I grow, the more holy seem the influences 
that surrounded me in childhood.” 


THE POWER OP PATIENCE. 


I HAVE a very excellent friend, who married some 
ten years ago, and now has her own cares and trou- 
bles in a domestic establishment consisting of her 
husband and herself, five children, and two servants. 
Like a large majority of those similarly situated, 
Mrs. Martinet finds her natural stock of patience 
altogether inadequate to the demand therefor ; and 
that there is an extensive demand will be at once 
inferred when I mention that four of her five chil- 
dren are boys. 

I do not think Mrs. Martinet’s family government 
by any means perfect, though she has certainly very 
much improved it, and gets on with far more com- 
fort to herself and all around her than she did. For 
the improvement at which I have hinted, I take 
some credit to myself, though I am by no means 
certain, that, were I situated as my friend is, I 
should govern my family as well as she governs 
hers. I am aware that a maiden lady, like myself, 
young or old, it matters not to toll the reader which, 
can look down from the quiet regions where she 

Y.-17 W3 


194 


THE POWER OP PATIENCE. 


lives, and see how easy it would be for the wife and 
mother to reduce all to order in her turbulent house- 
hold. But I am at the same time conscious of the 
difficulties that beset the wife and mother in the in- 
cessant, exhausting, and health-destroying nature of 
.her duties, and how her mind, from these causes, 
must naturally lose its clear-seeing qualities when 
most they are needed, and its calm and even temper 
when its exercise is of most consequence. Too 
little allowance, I am satisfied, is made for the mo- 
ther, who, with a shattered nervous system, and 
sufiering too, often, from physical prostration, is 
ever in the midst of her little family of restless 
spirits, and compelled to administer to their thou- 
sand wants, to guide, guard, protect, govern, and 
restrain their exp passions, when of all things, re- 
pose and quiet of body and mind, for even a brief 
season, would be the greatest blessing she could 
ask. 

I have seen a wife and mother, thus situated, be- 
trayed into a hasty expression, or lose her self-com- 
mand so far as to speak with fretful impatience to a 
child who rather needed to be soothed by a calmly 
spoken word; and I have seen her even-minded 
husband, who knew not what it was to feel a pain, 
or to suffer from nervous prostration, reprove that 
wife with a look that called the tears to her eyes. 
She was wrong, but he was wrong in a greater de- 
gree. The over-tried wife needed her husband’s 


THE POWER OF PATIENCE. 


195 


BTistaining patience, and gently spoken counsel, not 
his cold reproof. 

Husbands, as far as my observation gives me the 
ability to judge, have far less consideration for, and 
patience with their wives, than they are entitled to 
receive. If any should know best the wife’s trials, 
sufferings, and incessant exhausting duties, it is the 
Husband, and he, of all others, should be the last to 
censure, if, from very prostration of body and mind, 
she be sometimes betrayed into hasty words, that 
generally do more harm among children and domes- 
tics than total silence in regard to what is wrong. 
But this is a digression. 

One day, I called to see Mrs. Martinet, and found 
her in a very disturbed state of mind. 

‘^1 am almost worried to death, Kate I” she said, 
soon after I came in. 

You look unhappy,” I returned. ^^What has 
happened 

What is always happening,” she replied 
‘‘ Scarcely a day passes over my head that my pa 
tience is not tried to the utmost. I must let every 
body in the house do just as he or she likes, or else 
there is a disturbance. I am not allowed to speak 
out my own mind, without some one’s being 
offended.” 

It is a great trial, as well as responsibility to 
have the charge of a family,” I remarked. 

Indeed, and you may well say that. No one 


m 


THE POWER OF PATIENCE. 


knows what it is hut she who has ' the trial. The 
greatest trouble is with your domestics. As a class, 
they are, with few exceptions, dirty, careless, and 
impudent. I sometimes think it gives them plea- 
sure to interfere with your household arrangements 
and throw all into disorder. This seems especially 
to be the spirit of my present cook. My husband 
is particular about having his meals at the hour, and 
is never pleased when irregularities occur, although 
he does not often say any thing ; this I told Hannah, 
when she first came,, and have scolded her about 
being behindhand a dozen times since f and yet we* 
do not have a meal at the hour oftener than two or 
three times a week. 

‘‘This morning, Mr. Martinet asked me if I 
wouldn’t be particular in seeing that dinner was on 
the table exactly at two o’clock. As soon as he was 
gone, I went down into the kitchen and said, ‘ Ho, 
for mercy’s sake, Hannah, have dinner ready at the 
hour to-day. Mr. Martinet particularly desires it.’' 
Hannah made no answer. It is one of her dis- 
agreeable habits, when you speak to her. ‘ Hid you 
hear me ?’ I asked, quite out of patience with her. 
The creature looked up at me with an impudent 
face and said, pertly, ‘ I’m not deaf.’ ‘ Then, why 
didn’t you answer me when I spoke T It’s a very 
ugly habit that you have of not replying when any 
one addresses you. How is it to be known that you 
hear what is said ?’ The spirit in which Hannah 


THE POWER OP PATIENCE. 


197 


met my request to have dinner ready in time, satis- 
fied me that she would so manage as to throw it oflf 
beyond the regular hour. I left the kitchen feeling, 
as you may well suppose, exceedingly worried."’ 

Just then the door of the room in which we were 
sitting was thrown open with a hang^ and in bounded 
Harry, Mrs. Martinet’s eldest boy — a wild young 
scape-grace of a fellow — and whooping out some 
complaint against his sister. His mother, startled 
and annoyed by the rude interruption, ordered him 
to leave the room instantly. But Harry stood his 
ground without moving an eyelash. 

Do you hear ?” x\nd Mrs. Martinet stamped 
with her foot, to give stronger emphasis to her 
words. 

Lizzy snatched my top-cord out of my hands, 
and won’t give it to me !” 

Go out of this room !” 

Shan’t Lizzy give me my top-cord ?” 

Go out, I tell you !” 

I want my top-cord.” 

Go out !” 

My poor friend’s face was red, and her voics 
trembling with passion. With each renewed order 
for the child to leave the room, she stamped with her 
foot upon the floor. Harry, instead of going out as 
he was directed to do, kept advan.ciii^ Nearer and 
nearer, as he repeated his complaint, until he came 
close up to where we were sitting 

17 * 


THE POWER OF PATIENCE. 




Didn’t i. tell you to go out !” exclaimed bis 
mother, losing all patience. 

As she spoke, she arose hastily, and seizing him 
by the arm, dragged, rather than led him from the 
room. 

I never saw such a child !” she said, returning 
after closing the door upon Harry. Nothing does 
but force. You might talk to him all day without 
moving him an inch, when he gets in one of these 
moods.” 

Bang went the door open, and, I wan’t my top- 
cord !” followed in louder and more passionate tones 
than before. 

Isn’t it beyond all endurance !” cried my friend, 
springing up and rushing across the room. 

The passionate child, who had been spoiled by 
injudicious management, got a sound whipping and 
was shut up in a room by himself. After perform- 
ing this rather unpleasant task, Mrs. Martinet re- 
turned to the parlour, flushed, excited, and trembling 
in every nerve. 

I expect that boy will kill me yet,” she said, as 
she sank, panting, into a chair. “It is surprising 
how stubborn and self-willed he grows. I don’t 
know how to account for it. He never has his own 
way — I never yield an inch to him when he gets in 
these terrible humours. Oh, dear ! I feel sometimes 
like giving up in despair.” 

T did not make a reply, for I could not say any 


THE POWER OF PATIENCE. 


199 


thing that would not have been a reoroof of he.^ 
impatient temper. After my friend had grown 
calmer, she renewed her narrative about the dinner. 

I was saying, when that boy interrupted us, 
I left the kitchen very much worried, and felt wor- 
ried all the morning. Several times I went down 
to see how things were coming on, but it was plain 
that Hannah did not mean to have dinner at the 
hour. When it was time to put the meat on to 
roast, the fire was all down in the range. Half an 
hour was lost in renewing it. As 1 expected, when 
my husband came home for his dinner, at the regular 
time, the table was not even set. 

^ Bless me !’ he said, isn't dinner ready ? I told 
you that I wished it at the hour, particularly. I 
have a business engagement at half-past two, that 
must be met. It is too bad ! I am out of all pa- 
tience with these irregularities. I can't wait, of 
course.' 

And saying this, Mr. Martinet turned upon his 
heel and left the house. As you may suppose, I did 
not feel very comfortable, nor in a very good hu- 
mour with Hannah. When she made her appear- 
ance to set the table, which was not for a quarter 
of an hour, I gave her about as good a setting down, 
I reckon, as she ever had in her life. Of course, I 
was paid back in impudence which I could not stand, 
and therefore gave her notice to quit. If ever a 
woman was tried beyond endurance, I am. My 


200 


TH£ POWER OF PATIENCE. 


very life is Lecoming a burden to me. The worst 
part of it is, there is no prospect of a change for the 
better. Things, instead of growing better, grow 
worse. 

It is not so bad as that, I hope,'^ I could not 
help remarking. Have you never thought of a 
remedy for the evils of which you complain ?” 

A remedy, Kate ! What remedy is there V* 

If not a remedy, there is, I am sure, a pallia- 
tive,” I returned, feeling doubtful of the effect of 
what I had it in my mind to express. 

Mrs. Martinet looked at me curiously. 

What is the remedy or palliative of which you 
speak. Name it, for goodness’ sake ! Like a drown- 
ing man, I will clutch it, if it be but a straw.” 

^‘The remedy is patience.^’ My voice slightly 
faltered as I spoke. 

Instantly the colour deepened on the face of Mrs 
Martinet. But our close intimacy, and her know- 
ledge of the fact that I was really a friend, pre- 
vented her from being offended. 

Patience \” she said, after she had a little re- 
covered herself. Patience is no remedy. To 
endure is not to cure.” 

In that, perhaps, you are mistaken,” I returned. 

The effect of patience is to cure domestic evils. 
A calm exterior and a gentle, yet firm voice, will in 
nine cases in ten, effect more than the most passion- 
ate outbreak of indignant feelings. I have seen 


THE POWER OF PATIENCE. 


201 


it tried over and over again, and I am sure of the 
effect.’^ 

should like to have seen the effect of a gentle 
voice upon my Harry, just now.^' 

Forgive me for saying,^^ I answered to this, 
that in my opinion, if you had met his passionate 
outbreak at the wrong he had suffered in losing his 
top-cord, in a different manner from what you did, 
that the effect would have been of a like different 
character/^ 

My friend’s face coloured more deeply, and her 
lips trembled. But she had good sense, and this 
kept her from being offended at what I said. I 
went on — 

There is no virtue more necessary in the ma- 
nagement of a household than patience. It accom- 
plishes almost every thing. Yet it is a hard virtue 
to practise, and I am by no means sure that, if I 
were in your place, I would practise it any bettei 
than you do. But it is of such vital importance tc 
the order, comfort, and well-being of a family, to be 
able patiently and calmly to meet every disturbing 
and disorderly circumstance, that it is worth a strug- 
gle to attain the state of mind requisite to do so. 

' To meet passion with passion does no good, but 
harm. The mind, when disturbed from any cause, 
is disturbed more deeply when it meets an opposing 
mind in a similar state. This is as true of children 
as of grown persons, and perhaps more so, for thei- 


202 


THE POWER OF PATIENCE. 


reason is not matured, and therefore there is nothing 
to balance their minds. It is also more true of 
those who have not learned, from reason, to control 
themselves, as is the case with too large a portion 
of our domestics; who need to be treated with 
almost as much forbearance and consideration as 
children.'^ 

These remarks produced a visible effect upon Mrs. 
Martinet. She became silent and reflective, and 
continued so, to a great extent, during the half-hour 
that I remained. 

Nearly two weeks elapsed before I called upon 
my friend again. I found her, happily, in a calmer 
state of mind than upon my previous visit. We 
were in the midst of a pleasant conversation, half an 
hour after I had come in, when one of the children, 
a boy between seven and eight years old, came into 
the room and made some complaint against his 
brother. The little fellow was excited, and broke in 
upon our quiet chitchat with a rude jar that I felt 
quite sensibly. I expected, of course, to hear him 
ordered from the room instantly. That had been 
my friend’s usual proceeding when these interrup- 
tions occurred ; at least it had been so when I hap- 
pened to be a visitor. But instead of this, she said^ 
in a low, mild, soothing voice, 

‘‘Well, never mind, Willy. You stay in the 
parlour with us, where Harry can’t trouble you.” 

This was just the proposition, above all others, to 


THE POWER OF PATIENCE. 203 

please the child. His face brightened, and he came 
and nestled up closely to his mother, who was sitting 
on a corner of the sofa. Drawing an arm around 
him, she went on with the remarks she happened to 
be making when the interruption of his entrance 
occurred. No very long time elapsed before the 
parlour door flew open, and Harry entered, asking, 
as h-e did so, in a loud voice, for Willy. 

Willy is here. What do you want with him?^' 
said the mother, in a quiet, but firm tone. 

I want him to come and play.’^ 

You were not kind to Willy, and he doesn’t 
wish to play with you.” 

Come, Willy, and play, and I will be kind,” said 
Harry. 

^^Will you let me be the master sometimes?” 
asked the little fellow, raising himself up from where 
he remained seated beside his mother. 

Yes, you shall be master, sometimes.” 

Then I’ll play,” and Willy sprang from the 
sofa and bounded from the room, as happy as he 
could be. 

The mother smiled, and looking into my face, as 
soon as we were alone, said — 

‘^You see, Kate,- that I am trying your remedy, 
patience.” 

‘‘ With most happy results, I am glad to see.” 

With better results than I could have believed, 
certainly. Gentleness, consideration, and firmness. 


204 


THE POWER OF PATIENCE. 


I find do a great deal, and their exercise leaves my 
own mind in a good state. There is a power in pa- 
tience that I did not believe it possessed. I can do 
more by a mildly spoken word, than by the most 
emphatic command uttered in a passion. This is 
the experience of a few weeks. But, alas ! Kate, to 
be able to exercise patience — how hard a thing that 
is ! It requires constant watchfulness and a con- 
stant effort. Every hour I find myself betrayed 
into the utterance of some hasty word, and feel its 
powerlessness compared to those that are most gently 
spoken.^’ 

Do you get on with your domestics any better 
than you did 

Oh, yes ! Far better.’^ 

“ I suppose you sent Hannah away some time 
ago T’ 

No. I have her yet.” 

^andeed!” 

Yes, and she does very well.” 

Does she get your meals ready in time 

She is punctual to the minute.” 

Beally she must have changed for the better ! 
And is this, too, the result of patience and forbear- 
ance on your part ?” 

suppose so. What you said in regard to 
having patience, at your last visit, struck me forci- 
bly, and caused me to feel humbled and self-con- 
demned. The more I thought of it, the more 


THK POWER OF PATIENCE. 


205 


satisfied was I that you were right. But it was one 
thing to see the use of patience, and another thing 
to exercise it. To be patient amid the turbulence, 
ill-tempers, and disobedience of children, and the 
irregularities, carelessness and neglect of domestics, 
seemed a thing impossible. I was in this state of 
doubt as to my ability to exercise the virtue so much 
needed in my household, when Hannah came to the 
door of the room where I was sitting in no very 
happy mood, and notified me of some want in the 
kitchen in an exceedingly provoking way. I was 
about replying sharply and angrily ; but suddenly 
checking myself, I said in a quiet, mild way, ^ Very 
well, Hannah. I will see that it is supplied.’ 

“ The girl stood for some moments, looking at me 
with an expression of surprise on her face, and then 
walked away. This was a victory over myself, and 
I felt, also, a victory over her. Not half an hour 
elapsed, before, on passing near the kitchen, she said 
to me, in a very respectful manner : 

‘ I forgot to tell you, this morning, that the tea 
was all out. But I can run round to the store and 
get some in a few minutes.’ 

“ ‘ Do so, if you please, Hannah,’ I returned, 
without evincing the slightest feeling of annoyance 
at her neglect; ‘and try, if you can, to have tea 
ready precisely at six o’clock.’ 

“ ‘ I will have it ready, ma’am,’ she replied, And 

it was ready, 
v .— 18 


206 


THE POWER OF PATIENCE. 


' Had I not exercised patience and self-control, 
the interview would have been something after this 
fashion : about ten minutes before tea-time, Han- 
nah would have come to me and said, with provoking 
coolness — 

‘ The tea^s all out.^ 

To which I would have replied sharply — 

“ ^ Why, in the name of goodness, did not you say 
so this morning ? You knew that you had used the 
last drawing ! I declare you are the most provoking 
creature I ever knew. YouTl have to go to the store 
and get some.’ 

‘I’m not fit to be seen in the street,’ she would 
in all probability have replied. 

“ And then I, losing all patience, would have 
soundly scolded her, and gained nothing but a sick- 
headache, perhaps, for my pains. Tea, in all pro- 
bability, would have been served at about eight 
o’clock. You see the" difference.” 

“And a very material one it is.” 

“ Isn’t it ? As you well said, there is a power 
in patience undreamed of by those who seek not its 
exercise. Next morning, when I had any occasion 
to speak to Hannah, I did so with much mildness, 
and if I had occasion to find fault, requested a 
change rather than enunciated a reproof. The girl 
changed as if by magic. She became respectful in 
her manner toward me, and evinced a constant 
anxiety to do every thing as I wished to have it 


THE POWER OF PATIENCE. 


207 


done. Not once since have we had a meal as much 
as ten minutes later than the appointed time.’’ 

I could not but express the happiness I felt at the 
change, and urge my excellent friend to persevere. 
This she has done, and the whole aspect of things in 
her family has changed. 

There are times, however, when, from ill-health, 
or a return of old states, she recedes again into fret- 
fulness; but the reaction upon her is so immediate 
and perceptible, that she is driven in self-defence to 
patience and forbearance, the result of which is 
order and quiet in her family just in the degree that 
patience and forbearance are exercised. 


AN OLD MAN’S RECOLLECTIONS. 


I AM not a very old man/' said a venerable 
friend to me, one day, ^^yet my head has become 
whitened and my cheeks furrowed : — and often, as 
I pause and lean upon my staff, at the corners of the 
streets, the present reality gives place to dreams of 
the past, and I see here, instead of the massive pile 
of brick and marble, the low frame dwelling, and 
there, in place of the lines of tall warehouses, hum- 
ble tenements. If, in my aimless wanderings about 
the city, I turn my steps towards the suburbs, I find 
that change, too, has been there. I miss the woods 
and fields where once, with the gay companions of 
early years, I spent many a summer hour. Beautiful 
dwellings have sprung up, it seems to me as if by 
magic, where but yesterday I plucked fruit from 
overladen branches, or flung myself to rest among 
the tall grass or ripening grain. 

But other changes than this have marked the 

passage of time. Changes that cause them to sink 

into obscurity in comparison. Thousands in our 

goodly city have passed from the cradle to the grave, 

■during the year? that have been allotted to me ; and 
; 208 . 


AN OLD man’s recollections. 


209 


thousands have proved that all the promises of early 
years were vain. All external mutations would 
attract hut little attention, did they not recall other 
and more important changes. Thought and feeling 
have put on forms, as new and strange, but not, alas! 
so full of happy indications. Prosperity has crowned 
the toil and enterprise of our citizens ; but how few 
of the many who were prosperous when I was in my 
prime are among the wealthy now 1 How few of 
the families that filled the circles of fashion then, 
have left any of their scattered members to grace 
the glittering circles now 1 The wheel of fortune 
has ceased not its revolutions for a moment. Hopes 
that once spread their gay leaves to the pleasant 
airs have been blighted and scattered by the chilling 
winds of adversity. 

Pausing and leaning upon my staff, as I have 
said, I often muse thus, when some object recalls 
the memory of one and another who have finished 
their course and been gathered to their fathers. In 
every city and village, wherever there is human life, 
with its evil passions and good affections, there are 
histories to stir the heart and unseal the fountains 
of tears, y Truth, it is said, is strange, stranger than 
fiction; and never was there a truer sentiment 
uttered. In all the fictions that I have read, nothing 
has met my eye so strange and heart-stirring as the 
incidents in real life that have transpired in the fami 
lies of some of our own citizens. Any one, of years 


210 


AN OLD man’s recollections. 


and observation, in any city, will bear a like testi- 
mony. The circumstance of their actual occurrence, 
and the fact that the present reality diminishes, 
from many causes, our surprise at events, tend to 
make us think lightly of what is going on around 
us. And, besides this, we ordinarily see only the 
surface of society. The writer of fiction unveils the 
mind and heart of those he brings into action, and 
we see all. We perceive their thoughts and feel 
their emotions. But, if we could look into the bo- 
soms of those we meet daily, and read there the 
hopes and fears that excite or depress, we should 
perceive all around us living histories of human 
passion and emotion that would awaken up our most 
active sympathies. All this, however, is hidden 
from our eyes. And it is only, in most instances, 
when the present becomes the past, that we are per- 
mitted to lift the veil, and look at the reality 
beneath.’’ 

We were sitting near a window overlooking one 
of the principal streets of our city, and a slight noise 
without, at this time, attracted our attention. 

There she is again. Poor Flora ! How my 
heart aches for you !” my companion suddenly ejacu- 
lated, in a tone of deep sympathy, after gazing into 
the street for a moment or two. 

Who is it?” I asked. 

Do you see that poor creature, slowly moving 
along just opposite?” 


AN OLD man’s RFCOLLECTIONS. 


211 


Yes.” 

Twenty years ago, there was not a gayer girl in 
ihe city, nor one more truly beloved by all.” 

She ?” 

Yes. Nor one of fairer hopes.” 

Hope has indeed sadly mocked her !” said T, 
giving almost involuntary utterance to the thought 
that instantly passed through my mind. Just then 
I caught a glimpse of her face, that was partly 
turned towards us. Though marked by disease and 
sorrow, it was yet no common face. It still bore 
traces of womanly beauty, that no eye could 
mistake. 

Poor Flora ! what a history of disappointed 
hopes and crushed affections is thine ! What a 
lesson for the young, the thoughtless, the innocent I” 
the old man said, as he retired from the window. 

“ Who is she ?” I asked, after a brief pause. 

You have seen that beautiful old mansion that 
stands in street, just above ?” 

Yes.” 

It is now used as an extensive boarding-house ; 
but' in my younger days, it was one of the most 
princely establishments in the city. It then stood 
alone, and had attached to it beautifully laid-out 
grounds, stocked with the rarest and richest plants, 
all in the highest state of cultivation. No American 
workman could produce furniture good enough for 
its aristocratic owner. Every thing was bought iu 


212 AN OLD man’s recollections. 

Paris, and upon the most extensive scale. And 

truly, the internal arrangement of Mr. T ’s 

dwelling was magnificent, almost beyond comparison 
at the time.’^ 

‘‘ And was that the daughter of Mr. T ] 

asked, in surprise. 

Yes, that was Flora T ,” the old man said, 

in a voice that had in it an expression of sad feeling, 
evidently conjured up by the rerainisceuoe. 

“ You knew her in her better days?’\ 

“ As well as I knew my own sister. She was one 
of the gentlest of her sex. No one could meet her 
without loving her.^’ 

“ She married badly 

“Yes. That tells the whole secret of her present 
wretched condition. Alas ! how many a sw'eet girl 
have I seen dragged down, by a union with some 
worthless wretch, undeserving the name of a man ! 
There is scarcely a wealthy family in our city, into 
which some such an one has not insinuated himself, 
destroying the peace of all, and entailing hopeless 
misery upon one all unfit to bear her changed lot. 
The case of Flora is an extreme one. Her husband 
turned out to be a drunkard, and her father’s family 
became reduced in circumstances, and finally every 
member of it either passed from this world, or sank 
into a state of indigence, little above that of her 
own. But the worst feature in this history of 
wretchednc'ss is the fact, that Flora, in sinking so 


AN OLD man’s recollection f?. 


218 


low externally, lost that sweet spirit of innoeence 
which once gave a tone of so much loveliness to her 
character. Her husband not only debased her con- 
dition, but corrupted her mind. Oh, what a wreck 
she has become !’^ 

‘‘ How few families there are,” said I, after a few 
moments, “as you have justly remarked, the happi- 
ness of which has not been destroyed by the marriage 
of a much loved and fondly cherished daughter 
and sister, to one all unworthy of the heart whose 
best affections had been poured out upon him like 
water.” 

“ The misery arising from this cause,” the old 
man said, “ is incalculable. Nor does it always show 
itself in the extreme external changes that have 

marked Flora T ’s sad history. I could take 

you to many houses, fine houses too, and richly 
arrayed within, where hearts are breaking in the 
iron grasp of a husband’s unfeeling hand, that con- 
tracts with a slow, torturing cruelty, keeping its 
victim lingering day after day, week after week, 
month after month, and year after year, looking and 
longing for the hour wdien the deep quiet of the 
grave shall bring peace — sweet peace.” * * * 

“ As I thus look back through a period of some 
twenty, thirty, and forty years,” continued the old 
man, “ noting the changes that have taken place, 
and counting over the hopes that have been given 
like ^hafif to the winds, I feel sad. And yet, amid 


214 


AN OLD ]M4N’s RECOLLECTIONS. 


all this change and disappointment, there is much tc 
stir the heart with feelings of pleasure. A single 
instance I will relate : 

A very intimate friend, a merchant, had three 
daughters, to whom he gave an education the best 
that could be obtained. When the eldest was but 

twenty, and the youngest fourteen, Mr. W 

failed in business. Every thing passed from his 
hands, and he was left entirely penniless. Well 
advanced in years, with his current of thoughts, from 
long habit, going steadily in one way, this shock 
almost entirely prostrated him. He could not find 
courage to explain to his daughters his condition, 
and the change that awaited them. But they loved 
their father too well not to perceive that something 
was wrong. Suspecting the true cause, the eldest, 
unknown to him, waited upon one of his clerks at 
his residence, and received from him a full state- 
ment of her father’s affairs. She begged that 
nothing might be concealed ; and so obtained all the 
information that the clerk could give, from which 
she saw plainly that the family would be entirely 
broken up, and worse than all, perhaps scattered, the 
children from their father. 

On returning home, she took her younger 
sisters, and fully explained to them the gloomy 
prospect in view. Then she explained to them her 
plan, by which the force of the storm might be 
broken. In it they all gladly acquiesced. This plan, 


AN OLD MAN S RECOLLECTIONS. 


215 


they proceeded, unknown to their father, to put into 
execution. 

^^It was about one week after, that the old man 
came home so much troubled in mind that he was 
compelled to leave the tea-table, his food untasted. 
As he arose, his children arose also, and followed 
him into the parlour. 

‘^‘Dear father!’ said the eldest, coming up to his 
side, and drawing her arm around his neck — ‘ do not 
be troubled. We know it all, and are prepared for 
the worst.’ 

‘ Know what, my child ?’ he asked in surprise. 

‘ Know that our condition is changed. And 
know more — that we - are prepared to meet that 
change with brave, true hearts.’* ^ 

^^The tears came into the daughter’s eyes as she 
said this — not tears for her changed prospect — but 
tears for her father. 

‘ And we are all prepared to meet it,’ broke in 
the other two, gathering around the old man. 

^ God bless you, my children 1’ Mr. W 

murmured, with a voice choked with emotion. ‘ But 
you know not how low you have fallen. I am a 
beggar !’ 

^ Not quite,’ was the now smiling reply of his 
eldest child. ^ We learned it all — and at once de- 
termined that we would do our part. For two weeks, 
we have been out among our friends, and freely re- 
lated our plans and tbe reason for adopting them 


216 


AN OLD man’s RECOLLEOTTONS. 


The result is, we obtained forty scholars to a school 
we have determined to open, for teaching music, 
French, drawing, &c. You are not a beggar, deal 
father ! And never shall be, while you have three 
daughters to love you !’ 

The old man’s feelings gave way, and he wept 
like a child. He could not object to the proposition 
of his children. The school was at once opened, 
and is still conducted by the two youngest. It proved 
a means of ample support to the family. To some 
men, the fact that their children had been compelled to 
resort to daily labour, in any calling, for a support, 
would have been deeply humiliating. Not so to 

Mr. W . That evidence of his daughters’ love 

to him compensated for all the changes which cir- 
cumstances, uncontrolled by himself, had effected.” 


mE ENO. 


What would you give for a Friend 

who would take half your hard work off your shoulders and do ils 
without a murmur ? What would you give to find an assistant in 
your housework that would keep your floors and walls clean, and your 
kitchen bright, and yet never grow ugly over the matter of hard 
work ? Sapolio is just such a friend and can be bought for 10 cents 
a cake. 


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‘Seaside’ and ‘ Franklin Square’ Series, and even better than the l:imo. form of tho 
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JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

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JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

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LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


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The improvements being constantly made in “Lovell’s Library,” have placed it 
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and more attractive cover than any series in the market. 

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“ Mercantile Library, | 

“Baltimore, August 29, 1883. f 

“ Will you kindly send me two copies of your latest list? I am glad to see that 
you now issue a volume every day. Your Library we find greatly preferable to the 
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latter, the page being of better shape, the lines better leaded, and the words better 
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of its rivals. S. C. DONALDSON, Assistant Librarian.” 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 <Sc IG "Vesey Sti^reei:, USTe-w" Yoa::'!*::. 


THE SUCCESS OF THE SEASON! 


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A NOVEL 

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13 ooxx'tss. 


PUBLISHED BY 

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JTJST jPTj:Brj:sH:Er> = 


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“Tlie Most Popular Books of the 


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JOHN W, LOVELL COMPANY^ 
14 8 l 16 Vesey St., New York. 
PHYLLIS. 

1 Vol., 12 mo., handsome cloth, gilt, $1.00. The same in paper, 50 cents. 
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“ It is facinating to a high degree * * * w'o Jay aside the boot 

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